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BONNIE BELMONT 


A HISTORICAL ROMANCE OF THE 
DAYS OF SLAVERY AND 
THE CIVIL WAR 



I 

> > 

• > 

> * ■» 


> 


By JUDGE JOHN 




0 




S. COCHRAN 






pJHHAHY of CONGRESS ( 

( Two C'tales RaffsJvtxf ; 

NOV © }*0' 



COPYRIGHTED, 1907, BY 

JOHN S. COCHRAN 






BY WAY OF 
EXPLANATION 

As it is shown by the date of the first copyright, this 
book was written prior to the year 1900. 

A few years previous to 1900 the author arranged in 
the order of their happening, a collection of notes known 
as “Farm Scraps;” those notes, however, forcibly brought 
to mind numerous other incidents of equal interest that 
were jotted down at leisure moments, together with im¬ 
pressive recollections of a romantic courtship, that un¬ 
bidden, wove themselves into the details of the work. 

There the work remained in manuscript form until the 
present year, when at the earnest solicitations of friends, 
the writer permitted the manuscript to be printed in its 
present style. 

As the name implies, the books are intended for local 
readers, and are issued in an edition limited to one 
thousand copies; but they are of such quality of material 
and size as to necessitate their selling at the fixed price, which 
just equals the cost of printing, binding, and delivery to the 
purchaser’s home. 

The author wishes it understood that he is not realizing 
so much as a single dollar on the publication; but will feel 
doubly paid if the book will serve as a memoriam for him 
in after years with the folks he knew and loved so well, and 
the children with which they may be blessed, in Bonnie Bel¬ 
mont County, Ohio. 

There is nothing related in this book that is not founded 
upon facts. Though the names of some of the characters are 
hidden, thev are all real. 

Oct. 1, 1907. J. S. C. 




\ 


CONTENTS 


Why ------------ 7 

The Old Tavern -------- 8 

The Old Stage Coach - - - - - - - n 

The Schooner Wagon ------- 13 

The Log Cabin --------- 15 

Our Father - 19 

Saturday Night on the Farm ------ 21 

Mother ---------- 22 

The Old Spring --------- 24 

Early Settlers - -- -- -- -- 27 

The Log School House ------- 29 

Barring Out the Scpiool Master ----- 33 

Minerva - - -- -- -- -- 38 

My First Speecpi - -- -- -- - 42 

Spelling School - -- -- -- -- 44 

Early School Days - -- -- -- - 46 

Wheeling Market - -- -- -- -48 
The Slave Auction Block ------ 30 

Lucinda and Sam Escape ------- 74 

Courting at Singing School ------ 88 

Tpie Apple Paring -------- 95 

Some Farm Scraps - -- -- -- - 104 

Hallowe'en - -- -- -- -- - 109 
Maple Sugar Making - - - - - - - 113 

The Husking Bee - - - - - - - - 117 

Rob's New Boots - -- -- -- - 126 

The Cider Mill - - - - - - - - 128 

The Horse Race - - - - - - - - 131 

Revivals - - -- -- -- -- 134 

Quaker Meeting - -- -- -- - 137 

Grandfather's Story - - - - - - - - 152 

The Abolitionists - - - - - - - - 155 

















My Martins Ferry School Days 
The Debate - 
Mose - - 

Scene on a Mississippi Steamer 
At College - 

I Enlist ----- 

War and Army Life - 
Charge of the Sixteen Hundred 
Elizabeth Zane - 
I Study Law - 
Bolivar ------ 

Death of Aunt Tilda 
A Romance of Fort Pillow 
The James, and Youngers 
A Visit Home - 
Retrospect ----- 

Bad News ----- 

Beautiful Indian River 
Dummitt Orange Grove 
A Startling Surprise 
A Letter From Home 
Death of Mose - 


160 

164 

167 

171 

175 

179 

190 

205 

220 

230 

239 

243 

252 

255 

261 

262 

266 

267 
270 

273 , 

288 

291 












Bonnie Belmont. 


7 


Why 

Y OU have requested me, my brothers, to place in writing the 
historic incidents of our neighborhood as connected with 
the stirring times of the anti-slavery agitation and the suc¬ 
ceeding Civil War of 1861 - 5 , in which the six brothers of our family, 
in common with other neighbor boys, took such active part. 

You have also asked me to give such portion as may be con¬ 
sistently given, while so many of those are still living who were 
more or less identified therewith of the very sad romance in the 
lives of our two schoolmates, Minerva Patterson and Jack Salisbury, 
then so dear to me and in fact to all of us, and the memory of whom 
even now comes like a benediction. 

I have endeavored to comply with these requests so far as my 
recollection now serves me at this advanced age of life, and they 
will be found, in simple narrative form, clothed with sufficient cau¬ 
tion I trust, in this and the following chapters of this book, which 
I most respectfully and affectionately dedicate to you and our old 
neighboring farm boys and girls of “Pinch” and “Scotch Ridge,” in 
Belmont County, Ohio. These incidents begin in the early forties, 
at which time I was a mere lad. Our grandfather had moved from 
his farm at Burlington to his large landed estate, which extended 
from Glens Run on what is now the Martins Ferry and Colerain 
pike, to the National Pike west of Bridgeport, his land lying on both 
sides of the Cadiz road. He resided on the Old State road which 
runs along the top of the Ohio River hill back of Martins Ferry 
and Bridgeport, from the “Cut” on the pike first mentioned, to 
“Neelan’s Tavern,” on what is now known as the Bridgeport and 
Cadiz pike. 

His extensive tract of land is now divided into many farms 
and homes, but at the time of which I write, he resided on that 
portion of it now known as the Louis Cook farm. 

What subsequently became our father’s home farm was once 
a part of this tract, and was in hailing distance to my grandfather’s 
home near the Tavern. 


8 


The Old Tavern. 


The Old Tavern. 

T HIS tavern was on the old State road, now the Cadiz pike, 
in Belmont County, Ohio, four miles west of Wheeling, 
West Virginia, two miles from Bridgeport and three from 
from Martins Ferry, and stood just across the pike from the pres¬ 
ent Reid mansion. The old tavern is gone, and no trace of it 
remains except the well which was at the corner of the bar-room 
under the shelter of the long, ample porch which swept the whole 
front of the tavern, with its floor of well-laid flag stones, fronting 
the road. 

Many a weary traveler and tired animal slaked their thirst 
at this well, the water of which came cold and sparkling in the 
oaken bucket from a depth of a hundred feet or more; drawn by 
windlass and chain. In time, these were replaced by a wooden 
pump made out of a ponderous tree altogether too large and heavy 
for the purpose. 

I, in fancy, can still see the moss around that old pump stock 
as when a child I slyly lifted the lid on the platform and gazed 
into the wonderful mysteries of that deep old well. 

In that bar-room and on that porch many a joke was “cracked” 
and many a story of the road and pioneer life was told. Here, too, 
occurred many a personal encounter of fist and bludgeon. In the 
broad, open barn-yard, through which the road passed in front of 
the tavern, men of mighty strength often vied with each other in 
throwing the shoulder stone, lifting, jumping, wrestling, boxing and 
kindred competitive sports. Near the tavern were large fields in 
which were herded and fed the droves of hogs, horses and other 
stock being driven to eastern markets. Sometimes these droves 
would be kept in these fields for days, to rest and graze, and on 
such occasions the news that the “drover” had come, would im¬ 
mediately spread to the neighboring farms, and soon that drove 
would be augmented by the surplus stock of the neighborhood; for 
these traveling drovers furnished the market for such. Many a 
long “bandy” and “dicker” over stock took place in that capacious, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


9 


open barn-yard, in many of which peach brandy, applejack, whisky 
and gin played no unimportant part. Sometimes, under their 
warming influence, the poker table in the little back parlor next the 
bar-room was called into requisition, and the fate and ownership of 
many an innocent flock or animal was determined amid the revel¬ 
ries of the “wee sma’ hours.” 

Such had to be indulged in with caution, however, for even at 
that early day sufficient moral religious restraint had crept into this 
pioneer life that it had to be done more or less “on the quiet,” as 
not infrequently thro’ the resentment of some industrious and 
frugal housewife, whose Liege Lord had wasted their hardearned 
accumulations at the card table, the participants, especially the 
landlord and the “drover,” were made to pay dearly for the inno¬ 
cent amusement of thus robbing her needy family of what they had 
so laboriously earned in their struggles of a frontier life. 

Many a faithful housewife, with tears in her eyes, saw her 
favorite “sookie,” which she and the children had carefully raised 
and devotedly petted from early calf-hood, driven down the farm 
lane never to return, not knowing, tho’ perhaps not without any 
misgivings, that the only price paid for this family favorite and pet, 
was a game of cards won by the “drover” and a dozen drinks sold 
by the landlord, all paid for by the recalcitrant husband. Possibly 
later on, poor “sookie” was served up as a delicate roast on the 
sumptuous table of some other aristocratic gambler or economic 
robber of New York or Boston, thus exemplifying how in this life 
the innocent suffer to feed the hungry maw of the conscienceless 
and depraved. 

These incidents are not overdrawn. They are facts, repeated 
time and again under my own observation. I remember a case in 
point of poor old Mrs. Henderson, who resided near and in sight of 
the tavern. She was poor indeed, but kind hearted, painstaking, 
industrious and frugal. She was tender and loving to her family, 
and I am convinced she many times went hungry that her children 
and intemperate husband might have plenty. Kind neighbors had 
given her some lambs and a young calf. She had raised these upon 
the common and from her own meager earnings until fully ma¬ 
tured, and she hoped from their increase and her own industry, to 
lav the foundation for securing a log cabin home on a half-acre 
of ground near the one in which she was then living and renting. 


io 


The Old Tavern. 


This flock and heifer seemed to be the pride of her declining years. 
The pleasure of owning something at last, no matter how small, 
seemed the only ray of sunshine in a long life of sorrow. I can 
never forget that Heavenly smile of gratitude and satisfaction, radi¬ 
ant with hopes of better times to come, which lighted up her ex¬ 
pressive Irish countenance when talking to me of her contemplated 
cabin home for myself and wee ones, as she expressed it. Even 
as a boy I think I then was permitted to see a glimpse from heaven 
upon the face of that faithful housewife and mother as she meekly 
talked of and hoped for the comforts of a home. In one short night 
her husband, under the influence of strong drink, gambled away 
that flock and heifer, and before she knew of it, they were already 
driven into Virginia. I saw her just after, and she seemed heart¬ 
broken and crushed. 

‘‘Oh hearts that fade and give not sign, 

Save whitening lips and fading tresses, 

’Till death pours out its cordial wine, 

Slow dripped from misery’s crushing presses.” 

Poor Mrs. Henderson! The grass upon her grave has been 
growing for many, many a long year, but her Christian patience 
has left its impress on my soul, and I sometimes wonder if such sac¬ 
rificial suffering is not given to educate and prepare other souls for 
a better life and higher attainments. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


i i 


The Old Stage Coach. 

W HEN the old stage coach, with bed hung on leather straps, 
hauled by from four to six spanking horses, came thun¬ 
dering in with its lazy swing, all at the old tavern was 
bustle and curiosity. The usual numbers of loafers were there to 
stare, comment and take an inventory of all travelers or newcomers, 
with also a yearning, latent hope for a free drink at the bar when 
the occupants of the coach would alight to shake themselves out, 
while the weary horses were being exchanged for fresh ones. 
Then, perhaps for the first time, the community would be made 
acquainted with news of importance already more than a month 
old. On the arrival of the stage coach, the landlord took on a bust¬ 
ling importance, for he saw large possibilities of increased profits 
from sale of drinks at inflated prices with probable promise of a new 
boarder, while the landlady made her appearance at the front door 
with buxom, red cheeks and frilled cap. There was a real atmos¬ 
phere of hospitality around the old tavern at such times, and when 
the passengers had slaked their thirst from the old well and at the 
bar and the coach went lumbering off again, a sense of loneliness 
for the moment stole over the idle dreamers around the porch, but 
the tavern seemed to have passed through an era of prosperity, 
short but cheery. 

The lazy old dog which usually slept in the middle of the floor 
in front of the bar, but recently disturbed by the occupants of the 
coach, again flopped himself down in the self-same spot and soon 
was snoring away the dreamy hours in the sunshine through the 
window, in blissful ignorance of his close proximity to peach cob¬ 
blers and whisky cocktails behind the bar. The stage coach was a 
strange piece of mechanism, and yet it was a great civilizer. It was 
an instrument of commerce, and commerce more than any other 
agency is civilizing the world. 

Riding in a stage coach over the roads of that early time was 
not the most pleasant mode of travel, but it was then the best and 
most expeditious. The coach did not jolt, but it had a pitch, an 


12 


The Old Stage Coach. 


automatic return, and a side and diagonal weave, which were disap¬ 
pointing and perplexing. When the roads were rough and the gait 
was rapid, it became necessary to brace one’s self by the feet 
against the opposite seat and hold on with vigor and precision to 
the broad leather straps suspended from the sides of the coach 
for the purpose of sustaining one’s equilibrium. Even these pre¬ 
cautions at times were not efficacious, for in passing over water 
breakers with which the roads then abounded, one found himself 
suddenly and involuntarily planting his knees in the stomach of 
his neighbor in the opposite seat, while with a sudden lurch 
he was again returned to his own. The baggage was carried in 
leather boots at the back end and on top of the coach. The drivers 
of those days had but one idea, namely, to get along. The horses 
seemed absorbed with the same spirit; for with the well-known 
whoop of the driver and loud crack of the whip, they were off like 
a shot. I well remember with what awe I looked upon the stage 
coach, for they said it carried the United States mail, and to the 
pioneer his government is a matter of the most profound veneration 
and respect. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


13 


The Schooner Wagon. 

W AGONS were about the only mode of commercial trans¬ 
portation in the country those days, and it was remark¬ 
able what an amount of traffic was carried on with them. 
Primitive vehicles of all kinds and description were in use, with 
oxen as well as horses for propelling power, but the '‘Schooner” 
Wagon was the popular one, and the vast quantity of merchandise 
one of them would hold was truly surprising. They were usually 
pulled by from four to six horses and their old English beds were 
mostly painted blue and took on somewhat the shape of an in¬ 
verted crescent, the end gates running up as high as a man’s 
head, and the sides sloping by a uniform curve to about two- 
thirds that height in the center. The bed was covered with 
canvas over strong hickory bows, and was usually filled to the 
top of these bows with articles of commerce and transportation. 
These “Schooners” usually traveled in groups of two or more, and 
when arriving at a steep hill they “double teamed.” Traffic and 
travel had become so important on the old state roads in those 
times, that taverns for their accommodation were established about 
every five miles, each of which brought a comfortable living to the 
landlord and his family. Many of the teams were furnished with 
bells fastened on an arch over the tops of the hames, and on a clear 
frosty morning the monotonous jog of their music could be heard 
for miles. The presence of these bells indicated the owner was 
a little better off than the ordinary “roadster,” and that impressed 
with the importance of this fact, he was taking on a shade of road 
aristocracy. I recollect how I, as a boy, looked upon these as a 
grand and stately affair, and what little importance I attached to a 
driver who had no bells on his horses. He appeared to me to be a 
back number, while the other fellow was the very embodiment of 
advanced thought. To me the music of those bells was more 
metrical and sweet than the compositions of Mozart or Hayden. 
Even the dog belonging to one of these belled teams took on a 
statelier trot under the hind axle of the old Schooner Wagon and 


14 


The Schooner Wagon. 


bristled up as if to say, “I’m no poor man’s dog.” I don’t know 
but that in my boyish fancy, that dog stood higher in my estimation 
because he belonged to the wagon which had the bells. The “tar 
bucket,” supplied with material for periodical greasing, hung sus¬ 
pended from the hind axle. 

The hindermost horse on the left of the tongue was called the 
“saddle horse,” and he was usually the strongest, as he was made to 
do the double duty of pulling his share of the load and also carry 
the driver. The team was usually managed with a single line on 
the left hand lead horse extending to the saddle horse, but the more 
humane driver most frequently walked by the side of the saddled 
horse, or rode on the end of a board extending out from the bed 
between the wheels on the left side of the wagon. The stage coach 
was always managed by sets of double check lines in the hands of 
the driver from the front seat on top of the coach. At the driver’s 
side was the rubber bar handle, also managed by him, and with this 
and the long whip, and from four to six lines to manipulate, it re¬ 
quired no little skill, with cool judgment, especially when the teams 
were fractious, the roads steep and icy, or a race was on. A skilled 
coach driver commanded high wages in those times. 

The road to Bridgeport left the State Road at the tavern, 
branching off down the northeast side of the little ravine which had 
its beginning south of the tavern, and on a part of the Robert E. 
Lee estate, of Confederate fame, now the Chandler farm. In the 
early forties the land around and back of Martins Ferry and Bridge¬ 
port, and even Wheeling on the opposite side of the Ohio River, 
was not yet half cleared of its heavy growth of timber and the whole 
section presented a “back woods” appearance. It is singular how 
it is changed. Now there is no timber, and a teeming population 
of one hundred thousand people, busy in agriculture, the arts and 
sciences, can be counted in a radius of ten miles. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


15 


The Log Cabin. 

I N very early times, excepting in the towns, no such thing as a 
brick or frame house was known. The early frontiersman 
and his family were glad to be content with the log cabin. 
These were generally built near a spring of cool, delightful water 
with which that section was so abundantly supplied, and which 
usually gushed out from limestone or soapstone rock with refresh¬ 
ing coldness and lavish prodigality. The waters from these con¬ 
verging, formed runs and creeks, which at this time were plenti¬ 
fully stocked with fish, for they all ultimately emptied into the 
Ohio. Our father’s farm lay in the angle formed by the junction 
of “Buckeye Run” with Glens Run on the old Martins Ferry and 
Mount Pleasant road at the foot of the hill, back of Martins Ferry. 
I think I have never experienced a cooler or more shady and re¬ 
freshing drive than the road up Buckeye Run to its intersection 
with the old State road, half a mile west of the Tavern. When the 
trees were in leaf, scarcely a ray of sunshine touched this road, 
and the small level patches of green then open to the public, which 
skirted the road and sloped down to the edge of the babbling water, 
became havens of rest, fragrant with the odor of buckeye, locust 
and poplar blossoms, and the perfume of a thousand flowers. Half 
way up this road was the gate to the lane leading to the log cabin 
of our home farm, subsequently replaced by a large frame, in which 
the major portion of our father’s large family were born and raised. 

It and the other farm buildings would have made but a sorry 
comparison with those subsequently erected. Nevertheless it com¬ 
pared favorably with the very large majority of houses of its day 
in that vicinity. In fact, it was much above the average and was 
not without its corresponding degree of respect in the neighbor¬ 
hood. The ordinary size log house of that day contained from two 
to four rooms and was usually one and one-half stories high. Be 
it understood, a “hewed” log house was considerably more aris¬ 
tocratic then than one not hewed. The ordinary mode of building 
a log cabin was by selecting trees of uniform size, as near as pos- 


i6 


The Log Cabin. 


sible, and with these constructing the ends and sides of the house. 
They were built up like a rail pen only the ends of these logs were 
so notched and let into each other as to cause them to touch 
throughout their length. These logs were slided up on skids, hav¬ 
ing one end placed firmly in the ground and the other on the log 
requiring another above it. Their construction required many men 
and much strength, and the whole neighborhood turned out at these 
house raisings, free of charge. Little else than a saw, axe, hammer 
and frow were used as tools in the construction of a primitive log 
cabin. The gable logs were laid on purloins extending from gable 
to gable, continued from the square of the building to the top of 
the roof. On these purloins clapboards about four feet long, lap¬ 
ping one over the other, were laid, to form the roof, and small logs 
laid on these to hold them in place. These clapboards were worked 
out of straight grained timber by splitting with a frow. All cracks 
between the logs were filled with wooden chunking and mortar 
made of tough clay and straw. When made out of the proper 
clay, it subserved the purpose very well and was quite lasting. If 
not, it became a nuisance from constant crumbling. 

Many of these cabins were formed by erecting two distinct 
buildings on a common line, from ten to twenty feet apart, leaving 
a space between, covering both buildings and the intervening space 
with one continuous roof, when by laying a floor this space would 
constitute an open hallway. Spaces for doors, windows and fire¬ 
places were cut in these logs after the building was up. The win¬ 
dow places had no sash or glass, but were covered with linen 
cloth. The fireplaces were ponderous affairs, being usually six 
feet or more wide. They and the chimney were built of stone and 
clay for about six feet high and then finished with sticks about two 
inches in diameter, built up in the shape of a pen and well daubed 
with clay mortar. Care had to be exercised lest these should take 
fire. Before the day of board floors and when puncheon was used, 
doors were cut opposite each other, that a horse might be used in 
drawing into the house massive back logs for the fire, which would 
last in furnishing heat for two or three days. Wood was the only 
fuel, and while the rough doors hung on wooden hinges, which 
creaked with all kinds of hideous noises as they swung to with a 
very poor fit, let in much cold, yet the abundance of heat furnished 
by the capacious fireplace compensated in a measure for this rude 


Bonnie Belmont. 


17 


architecture, and the house was made measurably comfortable even 
in the coldest weather. The cooking was done by the good house¬ 
wife over these hot fires, in which a swinging iron crane hung on 
staples driven in the side of the stone chimney, played no unim¬ 
portant part. The bread baking was done in a pot with an iron lid, 
called a “Dutch Oven,” set on hot coals near the fire with red hot 
coals placed on top of the lid, which were replenished from time to 
time as the baking progressed. In fancy I can see the attractive 
and beautifully browned “salt rising” loaves baked by our mother 
and our neighbor, Mrs. Brown, as they removed the lids from those 
old Dutch ovens and the bread was forcing its way out at the tops. 
It seems to me I have never tasted bread like that bread. But, oh, 
above all, how would I love to have the weary hands of my sainted 
mother, the beauty and symmetry of which were then being 
marred for our comfort, laid once more in cherishing affection on 
my head. 

But little furniture sufficed for the poorer classes of the early 
pioneers. Some of their cabins had nothing but the earth on which 
they were built for floors. Pins driven in auger holes in the wall 
with slabs laid on them, frequently formed their only tables. Long 
handled gourds, grown on vines by the side of the house, served as 
water buckets and drinking accommodations. 

The ceilings of these poorer classes of cabins, when they had 
any, were quite low, and they usually had a half upper story, more 
properly called a garret, which was ordinarily reached by a ladder 
either from the outside or inside of the house. The flooring of 
these upper stories was often composed of rough clapboards. It 
must not be assumed, however, that all log houses of that day were 
so primitive and uninviting, for even these were mere makeshifts 
tor the purpose of getting a start in the world. 

The hewed log house was very different, when properly con¬ 
structed, and was at times not only quite comfortable, but really 
quite tasty and inviting. Many of them stood full two stories, with 
modern doors, windows, staircases, chimneys, floors and other use¬ 
ful adornments. The logs of these were all hewed to a line, making 
a square of four sides throughout their whole length. These, when 
laid one upon the other, fitted down closely, leaving no cracks, and 
forming a smooth surface outside and in. The inside was either 
nicely whitewashed or slatted and plastered, and made a very warm 




i8 


The Log Cabin. 


and attractive home. The soil of this section being rich and pro¬ 
ductive, it is astonishing how quickly these cabins passed away 
and were replaced by fine buildings and stately mansions. This 
was so to a marked degree even before the war of 1861 , and it is a 
satisfaction to know that our home farm is still one of the finest 
in the country, even though it has long since passed into other 
hands. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


19 


Our Father. 

O UR father was a good man. I am glad to say this, for when 
it can be said of one ancestor, it is more likely to be said 
of the next. It is a fair evidence also, that good ancestors 
have at some time preceded. I speak now in a general sense, and 
not in its particular application to our family. But I do really 
believe I have never met in this life of mine a more fair, honest, 
manly man than our father. He was tender hearted, liberal and 
kind to his children and family. His most ardent desire was to see 
his children become educated, refined and elevated. He was a 
member of the Methodist Church and a consistent Christian in all 
his dealings and conduct. The family altar, which he established 
in our home, can never be forgotten by a single child. In fancy I 
can still see the family circle gathered around that great fire¬ 
place in the sitting-room, while father read a chapter from the Bible, 
and then we all knelt in prayer. I can never forget the earnestness 
and fervor with which he invoked God’s guidance at all times over 
his children, and that He would lead them in the path of rectitude 
and love. 

This pleading was so fervent and persuasive at times that it 
made me wonder; and when after these prayers I have seen his 
eyes and cheeks suffused with tears, I wondered why it was. Long 
years of subsequent struggles and sorrows have taught us all that 
he, with an affectionate fatherly prescience, saw the many thorny 
paths the feet of his little ones had to travel. 

Oh, that I could call father back to hear just one of those dear 
old family prayers. And yet, I would not disturb his sweet repose. 
If the Christian teaching be true, our father is in heaven. 

In the many differences of opinion and purposes necessarily 
arising between each other in a family of seven boys and four girls, 
raised to manhood and womanhood, all to be decided by our 
father, his judgment was seldom at fault. He was a good judge of 
human nature, and studied and knew well the disposition and char¬ 
acter of each of his children. He was a cool man, and acted with 


20 


Our Father. 


deliberation on all matters. His chief aim was to be right and fair. 
I think there was not a trace of treachery in his heart. These quali¬ 
ties, coupled with his affection for his children, gave great force to 
any decision he might make, and while there was much aggressive 
and independent thought and action among that family of children, 
they always acquiesced with becoming, deferential respect to the 
judgment and mandates of our father. Each member knew he 
could go to him for a successful compliance with any reasonable 
request. He did not neglect the social culture of his children; on 
the contrary, he encouraged it; and while we were industrious, 
working early and late, yet he frequently stopped very important 
work on the farm to allow the proper recreation, social and educa¬ 
tional. He was a kind, Christian father and about the only ap¬ 
proximation of narrow-mindedness which I ever discovered in 
him was his objection to the introduction of the violin into the 
family by our oldest brother, Robert H. What a cheery thing that 
violin proved to the family. It was a new life to it. A life of music 
in which every member of the family became more or less proficient. 
The organ and piano subsequently followed, and ultimately I think 
no one enjoyed them all more than father. 

What a tender, civilizing influence there is in music. There 
can be but little malice in the soul when one is singing. Then what 
a medium it is through which to pour out one’s grief, and come to 
God with it. The children of Israel in their captivity, and the 
American slaves in their bondage, became the sweet singers of 
the earth. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


21 


Saturday Night. 

S ATURDAY nights above all others, were the popular and en¬ 
joyable ones to the young people on the farms for visiting 
and social recreation. Certainly no more genuine and en¬ 
nobling enjoyment was ever experienced, than when on Saturday 
evenings our family, with a few neighboring boys and girls, formed 
a circle around the piano or organ, and with violin accompaniment, 
in common chorus of mingled voices passed the hours of honest joy 
and undeceitful songs. There was no tinseled etiquette in that cir¬ 
cle, no gilded joy there. It all came from the heart. What a re¬ 
freshing epoch Saturday night was. It was the emancipator from 
the slavish drudgeries of the week. It promised rest and social fel¬ 
lowship. It whispered of songs of love, and the meeting of sweet¬ 
hearts ; and even if the night be far spent in social mirth after a hard 
week’s toil, the coming Sabbath promised a day of rest. What boy 
or girl on the farm has not often and often raised his or her heart in 
gratitude, and thanked God for Saturday night? Is there a person 
dead or living, who has ever read it, who has not thanked Robert 
Burns for his “Cotter’s Saturday Night”? How typical it is of ad¬ 
vanced life. When I look back over the long years which have 
intervened since those joyous occasions with our old neighbor boys 
and girls, I feel that the Saturday night of life has arrived, and I 
long for a Sabbath of eternal rest with those loved ones whose 
voices have many years been silent. 


22 


Mother. 


Mother. 

W HAT a blessed name! Oh, mother, how often when the 
heart is weary, when the journey seems long, when 
earth’s beauties are fading and its sorrows multiplying, 
do we turn to you, even in our gray hairs, with a childlike longing 
for one more gentle, genuine caress, such as you often gave in our 
childhood. Alas, dear mother, how often in your life of industry 
and care for us—for yours was not an easy life—must you have 
yearned for the same maternal sympathy. It is surely a pleasure 
in this life to know that some one sympathizes with us, and we 
know we can always turn to mother for this when all others have 
deserted us. 

I do not know that you will coincide with me in my estimate of 
our mother. Children have different opinions of their parents, 
largely caused by the imparting of the characteristics of either par¬ 
ent to the child, hence the child is not the most impartial judge of 
a parent at all times. 

I regarded our mother as a very pretty woman. With her 
dark eyes, symmetrical face and form, clear, rosy skin, black hair 
and eyebrows and long black eyelashes, I considered her beautiful. 
One of my earliest recollections as a child, was in stroking my 
mother’s long black hair and looking into her large dark eyes. 
What a world of affection and meaning there appeared to be in 
them for me when I tried to commune with her soul through those 
mysterious windows of hers. As I grew older, I thought those 
eyes are what must have captured father. 

Our mother was a woman of independent thought. She was 
eminently practical, and took little by faith. She did not believe in 
the orthodox hell and no amount of persuasion or social influence 
could prevail upon her to do so. She was a proud, high-tempered 
woman, sensitive to a degree, but the most industrious woman I 
ever saw. She was fearless, with boundless nerve and wonderful 
endurance. She was quick witted, ready at repartee, with a vein of 
romance. You all can no doubt recollect the old time love songs 


Bonnie Belmont. 


23 


she used to sing us, such as “Lord Lovell and Lady Nancy,” “Pret¬ 
ty Polly and the Captain” and “Sweet Caroline of Edenborough 
Towns.” Mother was a woman of strong likes and dislikes. She 
had her favorites among her children, and did not strive to conceal 
it, while on the contrary, if our father ever had any he never let it 
be known. Father was slow to anger, while mother was quick to 
resent. She loved her children, and the labor she performed for 
them was prodigious and would have killed an ordinary woman. 
She was faithful to the memory of our father, her first love, living 
a widow’s life of over thirty years, and dying such. She died fear¬ 
lessly, on a bitter cold day in January, 1893, and even in her last 
hours her thoughts were for the comfort of others, for she sighed 
as she said: “It will be so cold for you to go to the cemetery with 
me this kind of weather.” She was proud of her boys, all but one 
of whom had served in the war of emancipation, and when she 
found she was dying she asked them to take a standing position 
around her bed, had the curtains over the windows raised to let in 
the light, made the attendants prop her up in bed, and with her 
fast fading sight resting on her sons, she died with the last expres¬ 
sion, “My noble boys.” Few of us realize what we owe to our 
mothers. They stamp the intellect of the nation and make it weak 
or strong. 

Our mother died like a hero. She crossed the dark river bravely 
and alone, but I know father and the angels were waiting for her on 
the other side. God bless our noble mother. 


24 


The Old Spring. 


The Old Spring. 


HE old spring, hewed out of the solid soapstone rock one 



hundred feet from the kitchen door, is still a joy in my 


memory. What a mystery of unfathomable depth that 
spring seemed to my childish fancy. I thought it a thousand feet 
deep. I looked down into it and imagined I could see hobgoblins, 
monsters of the sea, and whales. We had a fanatical religious book 
at the farm, showing a picture of the great red dragon, representing 
a certain church, and I went out to that spring and looked down 
into it to find that dragon. I saw nothing but my own affrighted 
picture reflected in its clear and limpid waters, with my hair on ends 
and my eyes approximately as large as saucers. A bullfrog, half 
as badly frightened as myself, jumped from the bank into the spring 
with a plunging thud—and I was vanquished. I ran to the house 
declaring I had seen the great red dragon jump into the spring, and 
my teeth chattering with fright as badly as though I were freezing. 

That spring was so deep to me then, I imagined I could look 
down into it and see the “bad place.” I once even tried to do so, 
and in the bottom I saw a huge crawfish, who, possibly desiring a 
closer acquaintance with me, struck up toward the top of the 
spring, and I jumped and ran, declaring the devil was in the spring. 

In reality that spring was only twenty inches deep and its 
water always clear and sparkling. It came out of a fissure in the 
rock and was very cold. It was conducted by a lead pipe, under¬ 
ground, to the stone troughs in the spring house, ten feet distant. 
In these troughs our mother kept the milk in shallow crocks with 
wooden lids. The long earthen cream jar stood in the corner, and 
the recollections of the rich golden cream which was skimmed from 
the tops of those crocks of milk and transferred to that tall cream 
jar for periodical churning, make my mouth water, even as I write. 
The raids upon that milk house by us boys were many and vexa¬ 
tious to the hired girl, and while it greatly disarranged her pie, milk 
and butter commissary, and we never failed to hear from it, yet 
there was never any difficulty in arranging a new plan of campaign 


Bonnie Belmont. 


25 


and successful assault on the ever refreshing and hospitable old 
spring house, with its pies, cream, clabber and buttermilk. Over 
the spring house was the sleeping quarters for the ‘‘hired hands.” 
Being detached from the dwelling, it was here we boys were wont, 
on a rainy day, or other idle hours, to hold high carnival; and many 
a rough joke of doubtful propriety was perpetrated here without 
the knowledge of our father. We had a hired man, James Hender¬ 
son, who was in the habit of being out late at night. One of our 
boys set what is called a “dead fall” trap for him in his room, which 
he occupied over the spring house. This trap consisted of a large 
flat stone set on edge in a leaning position, supported with a wooden 
trigger, which when touched would let the stone fall flat. It was 
set in the middle of the floor near his bed, and on entering late in 
the night, Henderson inadvertently touched the trigger and the 
dead fall caught his foot. He never was able to find out which one 
of the boys set the trap. He even threatened to tell father, but he 
saw we all enjoyed the laugh over it so heartily, and being a good 
fellow, he not only relented, but after a while began enjoying it 
himself. So the worst that came of it was a few painful oaths just 
after the successful operation of the trap, and a lame foot for a 
week or so. 

From the spring house the water passed with sparkling patter 
to the big poplar watering trough by the barn, and here the tired 
stock of the farm slaked their thirst. With what greedy satisfac¬ 
tion the milch cows from the heated fields on a July afternoon 
gulped down the water from that old trough. Long and compla¬ 
cently would they drink, and it seemed to my boyish fancy their 
capacity for that cold water was boundless. But how freely that 
spring gave! Long years have passed and its liberality is undi¬ 
minished. It flows freely on like the fountain of God’s love to man. 
Surely both man and beast can proclaim that spring the benefactor 
of the farm. 

In the cool space under the willow that shaded the watering 
trough, the cheery fire-flies were wont to congregate in greater 
numbers, it appeared to me, than at any other spot on the farm. 
Here during the long drawn out summer evenings, the time for 
thought and reflection, they in myriads joined in pyrotechnic dis¬ 
play. The fleecy leaves of the mullein stalks that grew at the foot 
of the pear tree, near the willow, became in my boyish fancy, 



26 


The Old Spring. 


gaudy drop curtains of shimmering silver, while the orchard trees 
in the distance formed a somber perspective to the quivering red 
flashlight performance presented on the stage intervening, as I 
looked out from the portico of the old farm house down the road 
as “twilight deepened into night.” How often have we sat together 
thus as silent viewers, thinking, ruminating, half dreaming, until 
the croaking of the tree-frog, or chirping of the cricket, spake the 
lateness of the hour, and admonished to rest and pleasant dreams. 
Dear days—tender evenings of the long ago—like the fire-flies that 
faded when winter came, so since the winter of life has set in have 
those days become lost to us, and nothing but their memory re¬ 
mains. But they are still golden flashlights to us. These summer 
evenings come again in ruminative sweetness, and we are still look¬ 
ing down the old road over the “watering trough.” 


Bonnie Belmont. 


27 


Early Settlers. 

iS before stated, very little clearing was done in the vicinity 
of Martins Ferry and Bridgeport in 1840, though the work 
^ ^ of making farms was going rapidly forward. It is a little 
difficult to define exactly the limits of the sections known as “Scotch 
Ridge” and “Pinch Ridge.” However, the former might be said to 
comprehend all that portion between Deep Run on the north and 
Glens Run on the south, and extending from the Ohio River to Mt. 
Pleasant. It derived its name from the large settlement of Scotch 
people in that section. 

Pinch Ridge extended from the river to Colerain, and from 
Glens Run on the north, to Wheeling Creek. It obtained its name 
from a jocular expression of that day, indicative of hard times on 
that ridge. The people of these two sections were largely of the 
same class and stock, the above names being used for mere minor 
designation, and possibly through a spirit of friendly badinage. 
These early settlers were mainly Scotch, Scotch-Irish and English, 
or their descendants. They were representative of the best blood 
of those countries, some of them tracing their ancestry back to 
Lords, Earls, Dukes and even Kings. It might not be amiss to 
mention a few of the early families settling in this section. On 
Scotch Ridge and vicinity, there were the Raineys, Goodhues, Coop¬ 
ers, Godfreys, Moores, Grays, Alexanders, Majors, Mitchells, Dren- 
nens, Steeles, Barnes, Pickens, Sidwells, Loyds, Bundys, Hoges, 
Kinseys, Jones, Binns, Gills, Banes, Husseys, Updegrafifs, Radclififs, 
Hoggs, Flanners, Conleys, Roberts, Luptons, Jenkins, Talbots and 
others. On Pinch Ridge there were the Finneys, VanPelts, Gows, 
McGlens, Pattersons, Cochrans, Neelans, Weeks, Griers, Pratts, 
Chandlers, Woods, Browns, Ashtons, McBrides, Blackfords, 
Smiths, Wileys, McComas, Copes, Dungans, Lashes, Foxes, Steers, 
Brackens, Pyles, Baileys, Starbucks, Maules, Mercers, Whites, 
Sharons, Halls and others. Many of the descendants of these 
families became men of distinction. Josiah Fox, who resided near 
Maultown, now Colerain, was the designer of the first navy of the 


28 


Early Settlers. 


United States, and built the warship Constitution, still the pet and 
reminiscent pride of the nation. The Sharon family produced the 
senator-millionaire of that name, of California. The Theaker, 
Bundy, Updegraff and Gill families each produced a congressman, 
all men of ability. William J. Rainey, the “Coke King” and multi¬ 
millionaire, was from the family of that name on Scotch Ridge. Our 
brother, Judge Robert H. Cochran, of Pinch Ridge, originated and 
constructed the Wheeling and Lake Erie, and the Wheeling Bridge 
and Terminal Railroads, was president of both, and the ponderous 
and handsome railroad bridge which spans the Ohio at Ma: * ^ 
Ferry will stand a lasting monument to his indomitable persever¬ 
ance and genius. Charles F. Roberts is an eminent lawyer and 
author in Chicago. It would be too tedious to enumerate the num¬ 
ber of judges, lawyers, editors, doctors and divines produced from 
this section, all of whom attained greatness through that austere 
and exacting school of the farm. The sturdy Scotch residents of 
that section have sent many a son to the far West, to stamp their 
characteristics in the laws and society of our new states. The 
Scotch, and consequently the Presbyterian element, mainly occu¬ 
pied that portion toward the river, while that around Colerain and 
Mt. Pleasant was chiefly occupied by Friends, otherwise known as 
“Quakers.” I have a profound respect and admiration for these last 
named people. They have imparted a vein of intellectuality and in¬ 
tegrity to the citizenship of Mt. Pleasant and Colerain, and indeed, 
to the whole section round about. I have never found a people of 
more sterling honesty, or sturdy determination to do what is fair 
and honorable. As an illustration of this, Mr. Jacob Maule, a 
Friend, merchant in Colerain, refuses to take from his customers 
more than a certain percent of profits, barely sufficient to support 
himself and family. At the end of the year, it is said, he goes over 
his books, and if there is a surplus above this percent he returns it 
pro rata to his customers, or gives them credit on their accounts. 

When you blend such characteristics as these with those of the 
Scotch and English, as they were blended in that vicinity, very few 
better men and women can be produced. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


29 


The Log Schoolhouse. 

T HE old log schoolhouse of our district stood on the Jacob 
VanPelt farm, fronting on the State road, about three hun¬ 
dred yards south of the VanPelt mansion, near the Gow 
gate, and about one hundred yards south of the present Ferry View 
schoolhouse. It overlooked Martins Ferry, the ferry landing and 
a part of North Wheeling in West Virginia, then the State of Vir¬ 
ginia, and a slave state. 

With the exception of a small field or so, cleared off on the 
VanPelt and Gow farms, the land from the log schoolhouse was 
heavily wooded clear to the river bottom at the foot of the river 
hills. An occasional glimpse of the clear waters of the Ohio could 
be had through this woods as one passed along the old State Road 
past the VanPelt farm, and when the brow or lower hill was 
reached just above what was then the Noah Zane mansion in Old 
Martinsville, now the large and hospitable Sheets suburban home, 
known as the “Elms,” the beautiful Ohio broke into view with all 
its incomparable loveliness. Its waters did not seem muddy and 
turgid then, as it sometimes does now, since the adjacent country 
has been denuded of its forests and turned into cultivated fields. 
Its mirror-like surface seemed placid and kind, reflecting in lifelike 
semblance the shady dells and sunny openings of the forests and 
farms along its borders. It seemed so gentle in its leisurely sweep, 
holding in its waters shadows of the overhanging elms and willows, 
not forgetting the smooth barked beeches on which we were wont 
to cut our names with those of our sweethearts, in that sainted 
long ago. 

George Lippard, in writing of the Wissahiken river, says: 
“The Wissahiken is a ‘Prophetess’ which comes to us out of her 
cavern in the woods, and speaks to us in that low, sweet voice 
which awes and wins our souls.” 

So seemed the dear Ohio in those early days. No more charm¬ 
ing spots could be selected for lovers’ wooing than those which the 
old State Road afforded in the vicinity of our old log schoolhouse 


30 


The Log Schoolhouse. 


on the river hill. The shady, sandy road, inviting pathways, frag¬ 
rant wild flowers, delightful, healthful atmosphere, pure springs of 
sparkling water, large stately trees with a thick growth of most 
luxuriant blue grass underneath, with an occasional glimpse of the 
river through the parting foliage, and a thousand other surround¬ 
ings, filled the soul with romance and ennobling aspirations. From 
the VanPelt and Gow farms, “Mingo Bottom” burst upon the vis¬ 
ion like a panorama. In that beautiful bottom, on the labelle Ohio, 
lived and ruled the much wronged, noble hearted, mighty Logan, 
chief of the Mingoes and “friend of the white man.” “Here lived 
and loved another race of beings” and “here the untutored savage 
wooed and won his dusky maiden.” 

From the same points of view today, the eye sweeps over some 
of the most grand and picturesque scenery the country affords. 

Zane’s (or Wheeling) Island, diamond shaped and beautiful 
like a gem dropped from the garden of the gods, divides the waters 
of the river from Martins Ferry to center Wheeling. A more lovely 
island never existed, connected as it is by its numerous bridges 
with either shore, with its homes and educated, wealthy and 
happy people. Wheeling, Bridgeport, Benwood, Bellaire, Martins 
Ferry and Steubenville, with their multiplied mighty manufactur¬ 
ing establishments and teeming population of contented people, are 
swept by a single glance of the eye, while the expansive country 
adjacent, forms a mystic and befitting background to the enrap¬ 
turing scene. 

From these points comes in plain view the site of Fort Henry, 
on the Virginia side of the river where the last battle of the Revolu¬ 
tion was fought and won by the American pioneers. It is a fact of 
some interest to know, that owing to the poor facilities for obtain¬ 
ing news from the East at that time, this battle was fought after 
peace had been declared between this country and Great Britain, 
and without the knowledge of the participants. 

The place east of Wheeling, where our grandfather, William 
Cochran, fell in that invasion, is plainly discernible also from the 
old schoolhouse. What a glorious country those hills were to 
breed liberty. While the cursed institution of negro slavery, nur¬ 
tured and protected by the laws of the country and some of the 
states, has been forced well up in the “pan-handle” of Virginia, 
between the free states of Pennsylvania and Ohio, yet there was 


Bonnie Belmont. 


3 i 


too much of an atmosphere of liberty hanging around the crests and 
crags of those hills to long tolerate its blighting presence, and the 
frequent “runaways” from that section of Virginia to Ohio and 
Pennsylvania and thence to Canada, by the unfortunate bondsmen, 
ultimately rendered slavery unprofitable there. 

From the Virginia side the slaves with cautious whisper 
pointed out to each other “the brick house (Van Pelt’s) by the log 
schoolhouse,” as the first station on the hill and stopping place in 
Ohio on their way to freedom, by what was then known as “the 
Underground Railroad,” which I shall more fully describe fur¬ 
ther on. 

This schoolhouse, which was not unlike many others of that 
period, was the first in that district. It was a good building of its 
kind. It was a hewed log house some twenty-five feet wide by 
forty feet long. Even at that early day it w^as modernized to the 
extent of having a shingle roof. The floor sills were large logs 
with matched flooring of oak boards. The cracks between the logs 
of the walls, where there were any, were carefully “chunked and 
daubed.” The chunking consisted of pieces of timber cut to fit the 
cracks as nearly as possible, and the daubing of tough clay mixed 
with straw and water, was placed in the remaining cracks. These 
came even with the surface of the hewed logs inside and out, and 
the inside was neatly whitewashed. The windows extended nearly 
the whole length of the building and were composed of sash and 
glass, the sash sliding horizontally instead of perpendicularly. Con¬ 
tinuous desks with bench seats were arranged along the sides of 
the building, which were occupied by what was then called the “big 
scholars,” who in sitting at these desks fronted the wall, while the 
central portion of the building had two rows of long bench seats, 
having aisles in the center and on the sides, ordinarily occupied by 
the younger ones. These seats were made from thick slabs, 
with auger holes in which wooden legs were driven. The east end, 
and entrance, fronted on the road and at the opposite end were the 
recitation platform, the teacher’s desk and the large blackboard on 
the wall, behind which the master kept his hickory rods. The mid¬ 
dle seats all fronted these, and with what holy terror were we wont 
to contemplate the retributive justice stored up in those rods in 
“pickle” behind the blackboard. Some of the teachers of those days 
were wont to mete out more than justifiable severity for trivial in- 


32 


The Log Schoolhouse. 


fringements of despotic rules. On one occasion a student, Joshua 
Williams, was most brutally flogged with a tapering, squared pine 
walking stick an inch in diameter. Suit was brought for damages, 
a judgment obtained for $5.00 against the teacher, a Mr. Anderson, 
which he subsequently paid by taking the daguerreotype picture 
of the outraged pupil, the teacher doing a little in that line to aid in 
making a livelihood. With what pride Williams subsequently 
exhibited that picture before the remainder of the scholars, you all 
know. And you also know how we envied him in the ownership of 
a picture of himself, something so new then, though we can all 
testify it was not on account of his fascinating appearance, for 
Joshua was no beauty. 

Our schoolhouse was dignified with a large stove, something of 
a luxury in those times, which stood in the middle of the room, 
and on the whole, the building was really comfortable even in the 
coldest weather. The chimney flue was of brick and extended from 
the garret floor through the roof. The ceiling was of matched pine 
and had an ominous trap door cut through it to the garret about 
half way between the stove flue and the door and immediately over 
the middle aisle. It could scarcely be called a door. It was an 
opening about three feet square with a lid on it, painted to match 
the ceiling. It would be difficult to name the number of bears, I, 
as a school child, have imagined up in that unexplored dark garret, 
likely to come down at any time through the trap door. 

One notable event connected with it I shall never forget, 
though it occurred when I was but six years old in my first term 
at school. I doubt if there is a single scholar, old or young, pres¬ 
ent on that occasion, who will ever forget it. It was an incipient 
school rebellion, scotched at the very moment its participants had 
decided it a manifest success. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


33 


Barring Out the Schoolmaster. 

A NEW schoolmaster had been employed in our district. His 
name was John Weeks, but in the neighborhood he went 
by the name of “Old Johnnie Weeks,” as he had long since 
passed the meridian of life. He was a fair representative of the 
pioneer pedagogue of that day. He was short set, though well built, 
brusque, dogmatic, determined and apparently tyrannical. He was 
cross-eyed. One eye looked straight at you with a searching em¬ 
phasis, while the other seemed to take in all the surrounding coun¬ 
try, bringing up with a fearful enfilading squint on your unguarded 
side when he was angry or displeased. To the younger children 
that look was an element of profound fear. To the “big scholars,” 
who were merging into manhood and beginning to have a desire 
to test their physical prowess, it was half a challenge to combat. 
The first impressions of all the scholars toward him seemed dis¬ 
tinctly antagonistic; and, as was quite usual in those times, the day 
was rapidly approaching when it was to be determined whether 
the teacher or the scholars were to be the master of that school. It 
came about in this way. Just before the Christmas holidays the 
teacher was asked to provide a treat of nuts and refreshments to 
the school some time during the holiday week. He evasively re¬ 
plied he was not made of money and that such should not be ex¬ 
pected. Word was secretly passed around among the larger schol¬ 
ars to appear at the schoolhouse on the Thursday morning after 
Christmas before daylight, for the purpose of “barring out the 
master.” 

They were promptly on hand at the time appointed. The door 
was fastened on the inside by braces made of rails placed against 
the top and center of the door, and extending to the floor, where 
they were secured by nails and a strip was nailed on the floor 
against the bottom of the door. The sash of the windows were 
fastened in place by nailing strips behind them to prevent sliding. 
One sash looking in the direction of the schoolmaster’s home was 


34 


Barring Out the School Master. 


left movable, so as to take in the scholars as they arrived, but was 
to be securely fastened when the master appeared in the distance. 

A goodly supply of fuel was provided for the stove, and with a 
full bucket of drinking water and loaded dinner buckets, the rebel¬ 
lious scholars felt themselves amply provisioned and equipped to 
stand a siege of at least one day. This was all the length of time 
desired. It was sufficient in their estimation, and really so in fact, 
to bring in question the absolute mastery of the teacher and show 
him the will and desire of the “big scholars” were elements to be 
consulted in its government. 

All successful barring out processes have but one result. It 
demoralizes the school and it does no good so long as that particu¬ 
lar teacher remains. It indeed throws its blight over many years 
to follow. 

On this occasion the barring out seemed a complete success. 
All the scholars had arrived and the last “little one” had been lifted 
in at the window, and the latter securely fastened. We had in the 
school that winter many young men who were larger than the 
schoolmaster, and I remember I had selected in my own childish 
judgment, at least four of the big boys who were able to whip that 
cross-eyed teacher. I think there were many more on the morning 
of that day who imagined they could do so. It was within ten min¬ 
utes of the time for opening school when the last child was taken in 
at the window, and still no teacher appeared. 

It is singular how completely demoralized a lot of school chil¬ 
dren will become when they are congregated in a school room on an 
occasion of this kind and feel they are absolutely free from all gov¬ 
ernmental restraint. Being so young, this scene had a bad effect 
upon me, and I look back to it with anything but pleasure. It 
seemed as though all pandemonium had let loose. Nothing but dis¬ 
order prevailed. All were making all the noise they could in one 
way or another. Some were beating benches, desk lids were raised 
and dropped, one boy was marching around the school room beat¬ 
ing on the sheet iron coal bucket with a stick, some were dancing, 
others jumping and stamping and howling. One boy threw a tin 
cup of water in another’s face, and a fight was the result. This was 
stopped by someone crying, “The schoolmaster is coming.” It 
proved to be a false report, but it seemed like a convenient season 
for me to think of bears again, and instinctively my eyes wandered 


Bonnie Belmont. 


35 


to the trap door in the garret. I noticed it pushed to one side 
slightly, but all in the garret appeared dark and foreboding. Again 
the noise and din began. A cross-eyed scholar had taken his posi¬ 
tion on the platform and there, with book in one hand and rule in 
the other, with grotesque mimicry and cross-eyed squint, was imi¬ 
tating the master in calling school to order. A girl’s copy-book 
went flying across the room, and soon it seemed every school 
book in the room was following its bad example. Benches were 
overturned, the noise began again with redoubled energy, only to 
subside in a measure by the cry again raised, “The master is com¬ 
ing.” This was responded to by “Let the old squinty come,” “Let 
old cock-eye get in if he can.” One half-grown boy, who with an 
iron poker was parading around the room, yelled out with great 
vehemence, “If old baldy shows his head at that window, I’ll swipe 
him one with this poker.” Another said, “I’ll throw this bucket of 
water on his old bald pate.” Just at this moment, when the din 
was at its worst, and the hands of the great school clock pointed to 
the hour for school, the trap door in the ceiling was pushed to one 
side with a bang, and the schoolmaster shot out of the garret, land¬ 
ing on his feet in the middle aisle. He came like a shot from a 
cannon. I never saw anything so electrical. It was like a streak 
of lightning from a clear sky. He shook his head like a powerful 
lion ready for fight. He took in the whole room at a glance. 

A deathlike stillness prevailed in the room for what was but a 
moment, but which seemed to me to be fully five minutes. I seem 
to realize yet the intensity of it. It was but the calm before the 
storm. The schoolmaster’s look was terrible. It was but the sig¬ 
nal, however, for the big boys to attack. They sprang upon him 
from every direction. It was like pouring water on a goose’s back. 
He shook them off like fire-flies, and five of them were lying on 
their backs at one time from the merciless and well directed blows 
from the schoolmaster’s brawny fists. Once when they were pressing 
him to a corner he sprang upon a desk with the agility of a cat and 
kicked three of them in the face almost before they knew he was 
there. He was no longer on the defensive. He sprang upon those 
who were still wavering, knocking right and left. Up to this time 
he had spoken not a word, but now having knocked down every 
boy of any size opposing him, except one who was standing defi¬ 
antly with the big iron poker in his hand, he cleared two seats at a 


36 Barring Out the School Master. 

bound, wrenched the poker from him with fearful rapidity and laid 
him sprawling on the floor with a blow from his fist. The next 
moment he sprang on the platform, drew from back of the large 
blackboard a toughened hickory rod, sprang to the front of the plat¬ 
form again, and with rod in one hand and poker in the other, 
stamped upon the floor and in thundering voice cried out, ‘'Every 
last one of you take your seats.” The smaller children, half fright¬ 
ened to death at what had taken place, had huddled together behind 
the schoolmaster’s great desk. They obeyed the mandate immedi¬ 
ately. The older boys, now completely whipped and cowed, did so 
with almost equal celerity. It had just dawned upon their be¬ 
nighted vision they had been running up against a scientific frontier 
boxer and all-round fighter. 

The schoolmaster took a seat beside his desk, rested his elbow 
on it and his hand under his chin, and in that position looked into 
the faces of the whole school for fully ten minutes. As the minutes 
wore on, I could see the look of passion on his face and in his eyes 
being slowly replaced by one of calm resolution, not entirely un¬ 
mixed with kindness. Reason had fully asserted itself. He calmly 
rose from his seat and in collected, kind, though firm language, di¬ 
rected some of the boys to remove the barriers from the door and 
windows. This was immediately done. I am certain the studious¬ 
ness of the remainder of that day was never surpassed in that school 
room. While some of the scholars were much the worse for that 
day’s encounter, and while the affair was the sensation of the 
neighborhood, yet it established the complete authority of the 
schoolmaster. Just at the noon hour on the day before “New 
Year’s,” in the week following this encounter, a wagon drove up 
to the schoolhouse door and unloaded a bountiful supply of baskets 
filled with nuts, apples and sweetmeats. The schoolmaster an¬ 
nounced these were for the school and that there would be no 
school that afternoon and none until after New Year’s, and he 
wished one and all a “Happy New Year.” 

We had mistaken our schoolmaster. He had a reallv kind 

m/ 

heart behind a rough exterior. No teacher was ever more highly 
respected by his pupils than “Old Johnnie Weeks” after this. He 
taught long and acceptably in that district, bought a farm, settled 
down, raised a family of most respectable and influential children 
and died at a ripe old age, loved and honored by all. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


37 


It may be asked how the schoolmaster got in the garret. It 
seemed he had divined the purpose of the school, had by some 
means ascertained the day the barring out was to take place, had 
come to the schoolhouse before any of the scholars, and by means of 
a short ladder used for the purpose and kept hanging on the outside, 
had ascended through the trap door to the garret, drawing the lad¬ 
der up after him, and closing the trap so as to leave a sufficient 
opening through which he could view the lawlessness going on 
below. 

The pupils of “Pinch Ridge” always voted the military tactics 
of “Johnnie Weeks” in that great skirmish, an astonishing success, 
only surpassed by his fighting qualities. 


3« 


Minerva. 


Minerva. 

1 CANNOT say when Jack Salisbury first began to love Minerva 
Patterson. In fact, it seemed it had always been so. It 
came so naturally. They were children together, and she was 
about his own age. They were always in the same class at school, 
and she was bright beyond her years. They seemed to take each 
other by the law of natural selection from their first meeting, so 
far as congeniality of school fellowship was concerned. The at¬ 
tachments of childhood are not always mere whims. On the con¬ 
trary, they are most likely to be predicated on reason. The discrim¬ 
ination of extreme youth, especially in matters of genuine affection, 
are sometimes wonderfully appropriate. Minerva was the daugh¬ 
ter of a physician who resided near the tavern. She was always 
tall beyond her years, and as she grew into womanhood she became 
stately and attractive. Her complexion was clear and beautiful, 
and face and features quite classical. Her hair suited her complex¬ 
ion, and was neither coarse nor profuse. Her deep, mild blue eyes 
bespoke her force of character and placidity of temperament. She 
had a lovable disposition and was eminently practical. She was 
firm and unyielding in what she deemed to be correct, though at all 
times pacific and deferential. She loved to be right for the sake of 
it, and despised a wrong at all times. She was a true and faithful 
friend, and knew no such thing as deceit. I think it would have 
been impossible for her to have practiced it, or to have told a false¬ 
hood. She was careful and fair in her estimates oi others and 
always charitable. I do not recollect to have ever heard her say 
an evil word of anyone. When mere children I was attracted and 
impressed by her lovable character, and often wondered if she would 
retain this as she grew into womanhood. I am glad to know I lived, 
not only to have these hopes realized, but to see her develop into 
great feminine attractiveness, womanly beauty and high intellectu¬ 
ality. She was generally at the head of her classes, and I can well 
remember how it cut my pride when she turned me down in the 
spelling class. She always did it with such a regretful, pacifying 


Bonnie Belmont. 


39 


smile, however, that I felt half glad of it. She was quite early one of 
the very best spellers in the school, and this was saying much, for 
there were some fine spellers in that district. She subsequently 
became one of the most cultured members of the Mountain View 
Literary Society, held at the Blackford schoolhouse on Pinch Ridge, 
somewhat noted in its time. I now have in my possession the min¬ 
ute book of that society, which I am cherishing with miserly care. 
As I sometimes turn over the leaves of that book and read, it im¬ 
presses me I am holding sweet communion with the departed mem¬ 
bers of that society. How these “pictures which hang on memory’s 
wall, startle and gladden us at times!” They make us long for a 
future life, whether that hope ever be realized or not. Oh! this 
longing for the times that are gone—the association of other days! 

“There’s a magical isle up the river of time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing; 

There’s a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, 

And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of this isle is the ‘Long Ago,’ 

And we bury our treasures there ; 

There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, 

There are heaps of dust—Oh! we loved them so— 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair. 

There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, 

There are parts of an infant’s prayer; 

There’s a lute unswept and a harp without strings, 

There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 

And the garments our loved used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore 
By the mirage is lifted in air, 

And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar 
Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before, 

When the wind down the river was fair.” 


—B. F. Taylor. 


40 


Minerva. 


You will remember the most natural and direct way from 
school was down the little draw back of the schoolhouse to Buckeye 
Run, and thence to our home. The shortest way home to me 
(though it was by far the longest) was the old state road as far 
as grandfather’s and then down across the fields to Buckeye Run. 
The State road was the course Minerva, with other young ladies 
and Jack, had to go to their homes. Sometimes, when our walks 
were quite leisurely, I came up driving the cows as an excuse for 
being behind my other brothers and sisters, and sometimes it was 
caused by stopping hog holes in the grain field fences and kindred 
manifestations of youthful farm vigilance. 

My partiality for these young ladies did not escape the notice 
of my brother Crowner. He was younger than I, but many 
the sly look he gave me when I turned to go home by the old State 
road, instead of with that portion who lived in the vicinity of 
Buckeye Run. 

Crowner was a great “wag.” He loved a joke or a guy, and 
never lost an opportunity to press it home. However, he seemed 
to rather like my preference for the society of these for they were 
held in high estimation by the whole school. 

Crowner was a bright scholar. When a mere child he became 
the champion speller of the school, and the teacher and scholars of 
our district used to carry him on their shoulders, when the snow 
was deep, to the other schoolhouses of that section when spelling 
contests were on. It was seldom indeed he did not carry of! the 
honors, spelling down the teachers and scholars of his own and the 
other contesting school. On one occasion, after he and the teacher 
of our school, Milton Lee, had “spelled down” the teacher and 
scholars of the other school and all of our own, the contest between 
these two remaining spellers became quick and spirited. It went 
on in good natured rivalry until both schools became much excited, 
for Lee was a finely educated teacher, and supposed to be infallible 
as a speller. 

The announcer gave out the words more rapidly and each 
speller caught them up and spelled them alternately with equal 
vigor until both schools and all visitors were on tip-toe waiting for 
the climax. A word was given to Lee. He seemed for a moment 
perplexed, but it was only for a moment, and he started in vigor¬ 
ously to spell it, but when he had passed a letter in the word which 


Bonnie Belmont. 


4i 


was wrong, it was caught up instantly by my brother and spelled 
correctly, almost before Lee had gotten to the end of it. The effect 
was magical. The whole house clapped and stamped and Milton Lee 
caught my brother up in his arms, gave him a hug and then carried 
him around the room in a kind of electioneering triumph. Whether 
Lee mis-spelled the word purposely or not, he had a great admira¬ 
tion for his “little tow-headed speller,” as he called him. Lee 
w as a good and popular teacher, and his influence in the school was 
refining and elevating. 


42 


My First Speech. 


My First Speech. 

S CHOOL exhibitions took the place of commencements in 
those days. Some of the performances at these exhibitions 
were truly primitive and grotesque. There was one held at 
the Pinch Ridge school the first year I entered, when the whole 
country for miles around attended. At this I recited “ You’d Scarce 
Expect One of My Age,” etc., although I was dressed in kilt skirts 
and did not yet know all the alphabet. My mother had taught me 
to commit it at her knee. How I struggled in that first effort at 
oratory. I think my eyes must certainly have approximated the 
size of small butter dishes when the curtain raised and I was tremb¬ 
lingly ushered upon the stage. I trembled more than I ever did 
when about to be chastised. My fingers seemed to stand out stiff 
and straight and every hair on my head assumed a degree of im¬ 
portance I had never attached to it before. I wanted to cry, 
and yet I was afraid they would call me “baby.” I wanted to quit 
the whole business as a piece of foolishness and run behind the 
curtain of the ante-room at the corner of the stage; but I thought 
of mother and how feelingly she had told me how I would mortify 
her and break her heart if I failed to say my speech. I also thought 
of how she told me I might be President some day if I would only 
learn to speak. I would have exchanged a cart load of presidential 
terms as I stepped out on that stage that night had I been on the 
outside of that schoolhouse with my face turned toward Buckeye 
Run. I think I could have distanced the whole audience on a free- 
for-all toward home. But I wanted to please mother. I was deter¬ 
mined her confidence should not be misplaced. My courage im¬ 
mediately returned and I fired my speech at the audience with all 
the vigor and voice I could command. I really yelled at the top 
of my voice to keep my spirits up. I blundered through somehow, 
and the audience applauded, of course. I did not know what the 
applause meant until mother told me afterward. Judging from the 
way an old maid of thirty-five hugged and kissed me in full view 
of the audience when I got through, the speech must have been a 


Bonnie Belmont. 


43 


howling success. She was the ugliest woman in the neighborhood, 
and had a large wart on her nose, but I always had a warm side for 
her afterward. I sat and wondered where she got that wart. How 
some of the old bachelors must have envied me that night! 

William Tell and the apple was performed, and I recollect 
how Albert had to shake the apple off his head after the 
arrow was fired, and after it rolled behind the side curtain the page 
came out with the arrow run through it half-way up the shaft. 
The hole for this had been made in the apple beforehand. Tell’s 
fainting fit after this fearful and accurate shot was imitated to na¬ 
ture. When his head dropped, his chin went down on his manly 
bosom, as though he were hunting in his vest pocket for a chew of 
tobacco. 

Tom Seals had committed an amusing speech and stepped out 
on the stage with the greatest assurance to deliver it. He made 
a profound bow with his head more than half-way to the floor, and 
desiring to expectorate at this juncture, he did so when his head 
was nearest the floor. This set the audience to laughing, and after 
delivering his oration Tom retired feeling he had made a great hit. 
Fitzjames and Rhoderick Dhu was performed of course; and 
Rhoderick squirted the imitation of blood from the bladder con¬ 
cealed under his left arm, full in the face of James, as he stood 
over his fallen form. The other performances were equally enter¬ 
taining, and everybody went home satisfied. 


44 


Spelling School. 


Spelling School. 

T HESE spelling schools were not without their beneficial 
influences, though their harmony was sometimes broken 
by an over zeal on the part of the contestants, or an inter¬ 
ruption by some lawless character in the neighborhood who em¬ 
braced these opportunities occasionally to make a show of his bad 
breeding and physical prowess. In the latter case it is gratifying 
to know that so strong was the sentiment in favor of law and 
order in the neighborhood, this individual generally went home a 
wiser man than he came. 

These spelling contests sometimes consisted of the scholars 
and people, old and young, of a single district, and sometimes a 
challenge was sent by one school district to another. In the latter 
case they met at the school-house of one of the contestants, ordi¬ 
narily at that of the district challenged. They were invariably 
held after night. The spelling was carried on in various ways. 
When one school was contending with another, each school selected 
a captain, ordinarily their teachers, and they were then arrayed 
in a standing position along the opposite sides of the house. The 
announcer, who was some disinterested, educated person 
present, gave out the words alternately to the sides, each scholar 
spelling as his turn came, from the captain down toward the foot. 
As a word was misspelled the speller took his seat, and this was 
continued until all the spellers on one side or the other were 
seated, and the side still having one or more unseated was declared 
the victor. Sometimes a “tally-man” was selected who kept an 
account of the words misspelled on each side, and that side missing 
ihe greater number was considered defeated. Another mode was 
by selecting one best speller from each side, sending him to the 
foot of the others, there to work his way to the top as the words 
were missed by his opponents and spelled by him. In this way 
the words were given out down the whole line on one side and 
then on the other, alternately, and the speller sent into the enemies’ 


Bonnie Belmont. 45 

country who first arrived at the head of their column scored a 
victory for his friends on the other side of the room. 

When a single district was having a contest between its own 
scholars they selected two captains, ordinarily the best spellers. 
These captains would take their positions at the head of the room 
on opposite sides and call alternately the names of the spellers 
present whom they desired on their sides. They cast lots as to 
who should have first choice, as one good speller sometimes de¬ 
cided the whole issue. When the evening was about half spent, a 
recess of fifteen minutes or half hour was taken for social inter¬ 
course and recreation. This was the golden opportunity for the 
young men to obtain the consent of the young ladies to accompany 
them home. The meeting of the old, the middle aged and young 
at these spellings, not only developed the social side of life, but 
served to brighten the ideas of the whole district. 


46 


Early School Days. 


Early School Days. 

O UR school days and years had grown apace, and the old 
log school building had been replaced by a new frame of 
modern appearance and adornments. This new building 
occupied the site of the present school structure and was destroyed 
by the tornado of April 15, 1887. 

In these years Jack had spent many happy hours with his 
school-mates, and especially with Minerva. She had grown more 
lovely in his eyes, and he experienced a sentiment of contentment 
when in her company he did not feel with others. It was more 
than this. There was a strange, indefinable sentiment in his heart, 
new, and at times startling, which in his extreme youth he could 
not explain. He was a mere boy. 

There is certainly no life more calculated to inculcate principles 
of direct honesty in a child than farm life. A family on a farm 
is an empire within itself. Its governing principles are filial devo¬ 
tion and fraternal affection. Farm life is circumscribed. Brothers 
and sisters raised on the farm always have a warmer affection for 
each other, and a stronger devotion to their parents, than those 
raised in the city. These affections beget truthfulness toward 
each other, which in later years necessarily is practiced and exem¬ 
plified in their intercourse with the outside world. A farm boy 
presumes all others as honest and guileless as himself. He knows 
nothing of the blandishments and gloss of city life. He goes at 
everything with a straightforward, unpolished simplicity of pur¬ 
pose. This is the way Jack began loving Minerva. He did not 
know it was love until long years after. He knew there was 
something that attached him to her, but he was too young then 
to know what love was. 

Her conduct toward him seemed more guarded and deferential 
than to others, and he even imagined it was at all times more 
tender. As he grew older the fear sometimes came over him that 
this was the result of his desire to have it thus rather than the real 
fact. Then he would try to recall all the many kind things she 


Bonnie Belmont. 


47 


had said and done to him, in order to fortify his imagined prefer¬ 
ential standing in her affections. He brooked no rival. He 
watched with critical vigilance her deportment toward the other 
boys. This was when they were quite young. An imagined pref¬ 
erence by her in the slightest degree for others always cut him 
to the quick, and he was not able to conceal it at times. Then 
he imagined a knowledge of this fact was why she was so kind 
and considerate toward him, and that after all he had no place in 
her affections above those of her other school-mates. He 
wanted to tell her how he “liked” her, so as to keep her from 
“liking” the other boys. One boy in particular gave him much 
concern. He was bright, stood about as well as Jack in the classes, 
and he struck me as being quite good looking. He was of one of 
the best families in the district, had lived in their city home with 
his parents most of his life, but the family were now residing on 
their large farm. Jack knew he imagined himself more polished 
than he, and Jack at times had misgivings on this point himself, 
but he was determined the other should not know it, and he always 
assumed toward him a dignified deportment, somewhat tinged with 
an assumed degree of superiority. Jack did not fail to have con¬ 
veyed to him the high standing of his family ancestry. He did 
not permit him to surpass him in our classes. He would have 
studied his eyes out first. Jack was a better speller than he, and 
never permitted himself to lose this advantage. Jack took pro¬ 
found delight in turning him down in the spelling class and it 
seemed to mortify him. After he had done so he always caught 
the face of Minerva for a look of approbation. It never came. He 
would have given a world for it. To all appearances she was as 
impartial toward them as a parent should be with his children. 
His family were Whigs, Jack’s were Democrats. The Whig party 
was dying—the Democratic party was at the zenith of its great¬ 
ness. When Jack wished to make him feel badly he told him the 
Whig party was dead. He responded by saying the Democrats 
were slave-holders and brutes. I don’t think either one of them 
knew what they were talking about. The truth is, the Whig party 
was quite as much in favor of slavery as the Democratic party. 

The abolition of slavery was being agitated, but this was con¬ 
fined to the Abolition party. The Republican party had not then 
been formed. 


4 8 


Wheeling Market. 


Wheeling Market. 

W HEELING furnished the market for the farmers round 
about on both sides of the river. It is singular what a 
great local market this has always been. This is pos¬ 
sibly due to its early and many manufacturing industries. It and 
its immediate vicinity is now a veritable hive of manufacturing 
and commercial industry. We, in common with the other farmers, 
attended the Wheeling market. In the early days when none of 
the limited number of horses on the farm could be spared from 
the raising of crops, and our father’s presence was required there, 
we attended the market on foot, going by way of the McKim farm 
up to the state road by old General Brown’s, thence down this 
road south of the Gow grave-yard to the old ferry in Martinsville, 
and thence down Main street to the present North Wheeling 
market-house. The South market had not been established. Our 
mother, with whomsoever of the boys could be spared at the time, 
usually did this marketing, starting at about one o’clock in the 
night and arriving at the market-house in about two and one-half 
hours thereafter. With large heavy baskets filled with butter, eggs, 
fruits and the butters made therefrom, including vege¬ 
tables in their various seasons sometimes supplemented by a goodly 
quantity of cottage cheese, otherwise known as smear-case, these 
trips were very laborious. When the baskets were well filled a 
stop of a few minutes would have to be made every few hundred 
paces to rest No such prices were received for these hard-earned 
productions as are realized now. I have seen my mother stand in 
that cold market-house from 3:30 o’clock in the morning until 
high noon, in midwinter without fire, and sell eggs at three and 
four cents per dozen, and butter at ten cents per pound, and be¬ 
fore starting for home have to supply herself with an inferior 
grade of calico at forty-two cents per yard, and other manufac¬ 
tured commodities at prices to correspond. Such were the bless¬ 
ings of free-trade to our farmers at that early day. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


49 


It is singular the city authorities of as enlightened and pro¬ 
gressive city as Wheeling undoubtedly is, have never to this very 
hour provided stoves or other heating appliances whereby those 
attending these markets can warm themselves. I have often seen 
frail women, compelled through the necessities of life to vend their 
hard-earned productions at these markets, become so cold and 
chilled as to be scarcely able to intelligibly quote prices to pur¬ 
chasers through their chattering teeth and shivering bodies. There 
is more than one kind of martyrs in this life of ours. Many a 
noble woman has become such for the sake of her family at the 
Wheeling market. Oh, the multiplied hosts of martyred heroes, 
whose noble deeds have not been written in song or story. Heaven 
must be full of them, and they will stand much nearer the throne 
than he of the tinseled epaulet and sword. 


The Slave Auction Block. 


co 


The Slave Auction Block. 

O NE Saturday morning in June, while attending this market 
at the age of ten years, and while gratifying our idle 
curiosities as boys will sometimes do, I with a neighbor 
boy, James Van Pelt, sauntered to the upper end of the market- 
house, and there beheld a sight which I shall never forget, and 
which afterwards changed my whole political thought and action. 
It was a slave auction. The auction block was on the west side 
of the upper end of the market about where the city scales are now 
located. It was a wooden movable platform about two and a half feet 
high and six feet square, approached by some three or four steps. 
The auctioneer was a little dapper fellow with a ringing voice and 
an air of self-important bustle, which to a boy, bespoke him a 
man of surprising importance. Not a very large crowd was sur¬ 
rounding the auction block. On top of it was a portly and rather 
aged negress and the auctioneer. She was a mulatto, had a broad 
full face, a soft matronly eye and gray hair. Her look was all 
kindness and affection, though now it wore a sad and troubled 
expression. I liked her as soon as I saw her. Grouped together 
on the ground at the side of the block stood three other negroes, 
two men and one woman. They were all about the same age, the 
woman being probably two years younger than the men, and aged 
about twenty. She was also a mulatto, as was one of the men, 
while the other, who was her brother, was quite dark, with features 
and expression like his mother on the auction block. In outline 
of form and face the girl looked like her mother and darker brother, 
though here as to the brother the resemblance ended. She was tall 
and slender, with a queenly grace and voluptuous swell of chest, 
and gave evidence of refinement not looked for in a slave. Her 
lips were thin as those of a white person and her eyes quite dark. 
They were full of tears. I thought her lovely. She was almost 
white and her hair, while wavy, was not short and tight curled 
like her brother’s, but long and jet black. Had she been in Spain, 
no question would have been made that she was a Spaniard. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


5i 


In my childish innocence I could not reason how this girl 
could be the sister of that black brother. Subsequent knowledge 
has taught me my mistake, though only half a mistake after all. 
It arose from the conditions of American slavery. What a con¬ 
tradiction of words—American slavery. And yet it was true. 
The father of that black brother was a colored man, the father of 
Ins mulatto sister was a white man, and both children of the 
mulatto mother on the auction block. This daughter was possibly 
■he result of a forced co-habitation of some rich slave owner with 
his slave, a thing too brutally common in those days, as the sale 
of this three-fourths anglo-saxon child gave evidence. 

Her head would be bowed for a while as if to hide her tears. 
She would raise it for a moment with an inexpressibly pathetic 
look toward her mother, whom she evidently loved very tenderly, 
and then her eyes would wander to the auctioneer in a kind of 
dazed, dumbfounded look, only to die out in a speechless, beseech¬ 
ing, agonizing gaze upon the by-standers. Then her head fell 
again, and when I quietly slipped around in front of her and looked 
up into her face, the tears were freely rolling over her cheeks down 
onto her blue checked apron. I knew something was wrong and 
I wanted to give relief. I pulled the coat-tail of an elderly 
gentleman, and when he stooped down to know what I wanted, 
he answered my inquiry by saying, this was a slave auction and 
they were going to sell these four colored people. He told me 
they would likely be purchased by different buyers and be sepa¬ 
rated for life; that the woman on the block was the mother of the 
black man and mulatto girl, and that the other mulatto man and 
they all belonged to one master who had broken up and they were 
being sold to pay creditors. This elderly gentleman seemed so 
kind. He had a light brown broad-brimmed hat and was dressed 
in drab-colored clothes, with clean white shirt and close-fitting 
standing collar. His coat came up and fastened close to the neck 
like that of a minister. He seemed educated and refined. His 
clothes, I noticed, had some flour on them. When he began to 
talk to me I saw at once he was a Quaker, and for the first time 
I looked at his face and knew him at once. It was Joshua Cope, 
our neighborhood miller, who then owned the flour mill near the 
headwaters of Glen’s Run, a half mile east of Colerain, in Belmont 
County, Ohio, and some four miles from the Ohio River. He was 


52 


The Slave Auction Block. 


there marketing the flour which he took from tolls in grinding 
wheat. I had been to the mill many times, and when I made my¬ 
self known, he recognized me. 

When I asked why they were selling these poor people, he 
replied, '‘For money, my child, the price of human blood.” His 
words were subdued and low, as though he wanted no one but 
me to hear, but I noticed the young mulatto girl caught every 
word he said, and her face lighted up with a strange hope. “What 
will they do with them, Mr. Cope, when they buy them?” I asked. 
“Take them away to the South and work them like beasts, just as 
we do horses and oxen, without pay or reward,” he replied. “Some 
of them are cruelly beaten and mistreated, though this is not often 
done by the masters, as it is not to their interest to do so. It is 
ordinarily done by their slave-drivers without the knowledge of 
the owners. They are mere employes who work on a salary and 
try to make a big showing at the end of the year by increased 
crops, at the physical expense of the slaves, in order to retain 
their positions. One of the worst features of this accursed traffic 
is the separation of families, husband and wife, parent and child, 
brother and sister. But this is not all, my child,”—here his voice 
dropped to almost a whisper,—“this is not the worst; would to 
God it were! You do not know now, but you will when )^ou are 
older. Some masters are not content to own the bodies, they are 
ruining the souls of their female slaves. Oh, my boy, God is gath¬ 
ering a swift and terrible judgment to the people who are doing 
these things. If you live you will see terrible times for these 
wrongs. Be a man when it comes.” 

Those words sank deep into my heart. They came with a 
pathos and fervency I can never forget. He straightened himself 
up from the crouching position he necessarily had to take to talk 
to me in this subdued way, and began to take an interest in the 
crying of the auctioneer, which had been going on for some few 
minutes. The eyes of the young girl followed him in a pleading 
manner, and I saw that he observed it. 

“And a-going!” “And a-going!” “And a-going!” cried the 
auctioneer. “How much am I offered for Aunt Tilda Taylor? 
How much? How much? Now, gentlemen, this is a good servant 
woman. It’s true she is a little old, but there’s lots of work in 
her yet. How much am I offered? Speak quick, for she is going 


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Bonnie Belmont. 


53 


to sell. How much am I offered?” “How old is she?” came a 
gruff voice from the by-standers. I saw the man who asked this 
question, and set him down for a brute. I saw he was a typical 
Southerner, with good clothes, a ponderous gold watch charm and 
chain, with diamond shirt-studs and a fine gold ring on his left 
small finger. He was a large, powerfully built, broad shouldered 
man, with dark complexion and black hair and mustache. He 
had a lascivious, reckless, abandoned look, and to me was very 
lepulsive. 

“Sixty-five years old,” replied the auctioneer, “but she is 
healthy, spry and active, and her teeth are good yet, come up and 
examine them.” The man walked up on the platform, and in a 
rough manner caught the lips of the woman and pulling them apart 
t >ok a protracted survey of her teeth and mouth. He ordered her 
to open her mouth, which she did, and then actually ran his finger 
into it to feel her “back grinders,” as he termed it. The blood 
mounted to her cheeks at this indignity, but in a moment her 
self-possession came, and that same resigned, though sad expres¬ 
sion, took possession of her face, and as her eyes fell full on me, 
I know that she was talking to God. No such light could beam 
out of the windows of the soul as I saw that day without con¬ 
vincing me that God was communing with hers at that moment. 
She had a hope, and she was praying. 

“Ah, well for us all some sweet hope lies 
Deeply buried from human eyes; 

And, in the hereafter, angels may 
Roll the stone from its grave away.” 

—Whittier. 

He took hold of her arms, and punched her in the side and 
oack, to see how fleshy she was and then looked at her hands. 
They seemed soft and tender. “Oh, she’s a d—d house servant,” 
he said, “and I don’t *want her. She’d be of no account in my 
hemp fields in Mississippi.” “Did you ever work in the field, old 
woman?” “No, sir; I waited on Misses all my life till she died the 
other day,” she replied. I was struck with her soft musical voice 
and I thought of how I would hate to have my mother treated 
that way. “Well, I don’t want her, but I’ll give fifty dollars for 


54 


The Slave Auction Block. 


her, to sell again as a speculation, and if anybody else wants her 
for more money he can take her.” “Fifty dollars I am offered,’ 
cried the auctioneer, “and a-going! and a-going at fifty dollars. 
Who’ll give more?” Seventy-five came from another, who gave 
evidence of being a Southerner from his dialect. “I am out,” said 
the first bidder as the auctioneer turned toward him for a raised 
bid. “And a-going! and a-going! and a-going at seventy-five dol 
lars!” “Eighty,” came from the lips of Mr. Cope, and I was dumb¬ 
founded. What could he want with a slave in Ohio. They did 
not permit slavery there. Was Mr. Cope going to speculate in 
this traffic after what he said to me a few minutes since, and sell 
Aunt Tilda again to make money on her. “I’ll give eighty-five,’ 
cried the other bidder, and the auctioner cried it again, lustily 
“Ninety,” softly said Mr. Cope. “Ninety-five,” cried the South¬ 
erner, and the bid hung at this for some time and until I feared 
Mr. Cope would let her go. Finally, when the auctioneer was 
about to close the bid, Mr. Cope mildly said, “one hundred.” J 
was on Mr. Cope’s side. I wanted him to get Aunt Tilda, for, 
on second thought, I knew him to be a good, humane man, who 
was bitterly opposed to slavery and who never lost an opportunity 
to do a kindness to a human being, or any suffering creature. He 
was known in our neighborhood as an “Abolitionist.” This was 
the political cognomen applied to those who were in favor of the 
immediate abolishment of negro slavery. They were reproach¬ 
fully termed, “Black Abolitionists,” “Nigger Worshippers,” “Woolly 
Heads,” and other disgraceful kindred epithets, by the most ex¬ 
treme Democrats and Whigs of the day. 

“One hundred, and a-going at one hundred !” cried the auc¬ 
tioneer. The Southerner eyed Mr. Cope for a moment, and then 
bid one hundred and five. Quick as a shot came “One hundred 
and twenty-five” from Mr. Cope, and the opposing bidder said, 
“Let him have her. There is no money in her at that price.” She 
was knocked down to Mr. Cope, who walked up to the constable, 
handed him the money and said, “Thee will please give me a bill 
of sale for Matilda Taylor.” This was promptly done, as these 
bills of sale were prepared in advance, leaving nothing to fill in 
except the purchase price, the names of purchasers and date of 
sale. Mr. Cope took the paper, read it over (it was a printed form), 
then wrote something across the back and folded it and replaced 


Bonnie Belmont. 


55 


it in his large note-book in his side pocket. A change had come 
over the features of Aunt Tilda. A Quaker had bought her, and 
she knew what that meant. Her face was radiant with joy. It 
looked as though it had been touched by an angel of light. This 
lasted but for a moment, however, and was then replaced by that 
same, sad, distressed, though resigned look. Her eyes fell upon 
her two children at the side of the auction block. Years afterward 
1 learned what Mr. Cope had written on the back of that bill of sale. 
It was as follows: 

“Wheeling, W. Va., 6th month, 7th day. 

“I, Joshua Cope, the within owner, hereby manumit, .release, 
and forever set free, the within slave, Matilda Taylor. Witness 
my hand, day and date above written. 

“JOSHUA COPE.” 

I was favorably impressed with the Southerner who had last 
bid on Aunt Tilda. He appeared a thoughtful, humane individual, 
though one of spirit and determination. He was a Mr. Copeland 
from Louisiana, and owned two large sugar plantations on the 
Mississippi River just above New Orleans. He resided on the one 
nearer the city, the other being seventy-five miles further up. The 
latter he had given to his son, a profligate spendthrift given to 
gambling. The first named Southerner was from the hemp dis¬ 
trict in the State of Mississippi, and his name was Maxwell. While 
Maxwell was holding some conversation with the auctioneer, and 
the papers were being made out for Aunt Tilda’s transfer, I noticed 
the daughter weeping again. I sidled up to her, touched one of 
her hands hanging at her side and asked if she was sick. She 
stooped down over me and one of her tears dropped on my cheek. 
“No, no,” she said; “they have sold mamma and I’ll never see her 
again.” She bent lower over me and said, “Who is that kind, nice 
gentleman who bought mamma? I saw you talking to him.” 
“Oh, that is Mr. Cope; he is a Quaker, and lives over near where 
I do in Ohio. He is our miller and lives at the head of Glen’s 
Run, and is a nice good man,” I replied. “Won’t you go and ask 
him to buy me, too, so I can be with mamma?” she said, still in a 
whisper. 

“Here, boy, git out of here! Aunt Tilda, come down from there 
and let Lucinda go up,” cried the auctioneer. I hustled ofif to 
deliver the message to Mr. Cope, who replied, “Yes, yes, my lad,” 


56 


The Slave Auction Block. 


and for the first time I saw another Quaker-dressed gentleman 
to whom he turned, and they began a quiet, earnest conversation 
a little apart from the others. Aunt Tilda came down from the 
block, closely watching the features and actions of her new master. 
The girl went tremblingly up the steps and with modest drooping 
head. Her face and features were almost entirely concealed by a 
deep buff-colored sun-bonnet. “Hold up that head there and let 
the buyers see you! No foolishness now!” gruffly yelled the 
auctioneer. “It is my duty,” said the auctioneer, “to say to all 
purchasers that the three slaves, Aunt Tilda and her two children, 
Lucinda and Mose, are good, obedient and industrious. They 
have been well raised by an aristocratic gentlewoman in Eastern 
Virginia, who died a year or so ago, and they were purchased at 
administration sale by a gentleman in this city who has met with 
financial misfortune, and they are now being sold on execution sale 
to satisfy a judgment. The title is good, and I recommend them 
as good, obedient servants. The other nigger was brought at the 
same time from a neighboring slave-holder, and was brought here 
with the other three, and the owner and title are the same. I 
cannot recommend the boy, Sam Alexander, as highly as I can 
the others. He is a good worker, strong, active and industrious. 
He is pretty well educated, having kept the books and attended 
to the business affairs of his master in the eastern part of the 
state, on whose plantation he was born and raised. But gentle¬ 
men, he'is a hard nigger to keep your eyes on. He has run away 
twice, and so you can buy him with your eyes open. Outside of 
this he is a good slave, as far as educated slaves go. How much 
am I offered for ‘Cinda Taylor?’ how much? how much?” The 
bidding between the two Southerners became quite spirited, and 
the eyes of Lucinda and her mother, and indeed all four of the 
unfortunate slaves, were turned beseechingly upon Mr. Cope. He 
stood watching the contest in silence with the other Friend near 
him. They had reached the nine hundred notch on Maxwell’s bid, 
when Copeland dropped out with the remark that he did not really 
need the girl, but was willing to give her a good home. “I guess 
I can give her as good a home as you can, sir,” said Maxwell, with 
miffed air and insulting look. The eyes of both men met for a 
moment in a kind of half challenge, and there appeared to be a 
half-formed reply on Copeland’s lips, but he said nothing, and 


Bonnie Belmont. 


57 


turned away with an air of incredulence as to Maxwell’s assertion. 
He was a man of self-control and deliberate coolness, but in the 
look he gave Maxwell he showed he was a dangerous one to trifle 
with, and Maxwell saw it. The auctioneer was about to close on 
Maxwell’s bid, when the soft voice of Mr. Cope said, “I’ll give thee 
one thousand.’’ Maxwell stared him full in the face for a moment 
or so, and then said, “Well, by the Lord! Here, let me examine 
that girl.” He stepped up on the platform with the assurance of 
a vulgar braggart and tore the bonnet from Lucinda’s head, with 
the expression, “Here, let the people see what you look like.” He 
caught her chin, drooping with modesty on her breast, and jerked 
her face to an upright stare in full and open view. I think her 
beauty surprised even him when the sun shone on that wavy hair, 
long, and black as the raven. He looked her in the eyes with a 
ruffianly stare and Lucinda turned pale as death when his eyes met 
hers. She knew what she had to expect in that brute. He next 
laid his hand on her breast with a lecherous leer toward the crowd. 
A murmur of disapprobation came from the by-standers. I was 
standing beside the mulatto Sam, and he made an involuntary 
spring for the platform. I heard a chain rattle, and for the first 
time noticed his right wrist was cuffed to the left wrist of a guard. 
The look of vindictive indignation which he gave Maxwell, showed 
he was Lucinda’s lover. She gave him a look of tenderness which 
seemed to quiet him. Maxwell bid fifty dollars more. 

“I will give eleven hundred for her,” said Mr. Cope. Again 
the hopes of those concerned and of the whole audience were raised 
in the prospect that Maxwell would not become the purchaser. But 
he stepped to the side of the platform and looking Mr. Cope full in 
the face said, “Now, see here, I want this girl. I have the money 
to pay for her and I’ll own her if it takes a fortune.” “Very well, 
then I think we will make thee pay for her,” was the reply. “You 
are bidding to make her cost me money, are you?” “No, friend, 
I am only bidding to give her a respectable home with her mother.” 
“Do you mean to insinuate, sir, that I will not give her a respect¬ 
able home? If you do, you are a liar.” “Be patient, friend, thee 
is getting excited. If my words convict thee in thine own heart, 
it is not my fault, but the fault of the condition of thy heart. I 
only told thee for what reason I was bidding.” “I will give fifteen 
hundred dollars for her,” said Maxwell in great anger. “Let us 


58 


The Slave Auction Block. 


make it sixteen/’ said Mr. Cope. “Seventeen,” said Maxwell. 
“Eighteen,” replied Cope. “Nineteen hundred,” responded Max¬ 
well with bitterness. At this there was a long parley. Mr. Cope 
and his Quaker friend consulted for a few moments and then 
called Mr. Copeland to one side in quite a lengthy conversation. 
I slipped up close to listen. Mr. Copeland was saying, “Gentle¬ 
men, I have no use whatever for the girl. I only bid, hoping to 
take her out of the hands of that villain. There is no use bidding 
against him. I know him. He is immensely wealthy, is a noto¬ 
rious gambler and a lascivious scoundrel. I know what he wants 
her for, and I know he will get her in spite of us all. Neverthe¬ 
less, as you say you have exhausted your fund, I will make one 
more bid. “I will give two thousand dollars,” said Mr. Copeland 
to the auctioneer. “The deuce you will! A new Richmond in the 
field,” said Maxwell, “Well, I’ll make it twenty-one hundred.” 
She was sold to Maxwell at these figures. 

Poor Lucinda burst into a flood of tears and they led her 

down the steps. I slipped up to her side and unobserved by others 

•* 

placed in her hand a gingerbread horse cake, which I bought for 
a cent in the market-house. She noticed this token of concern for 
her, and stooped down and kissed me on the forehead. I told her 
when I got to be a man and had lots of money I’d come and buy 
her away from that fellow. “Ah, my dear child,” she said, “it will 
be too late then.” I asked her why she could not run away and 
come over to our house across the river, and I’d hide her so they 
could not find her. “Where do you live, child; how would I get 
there?” “I live just back of the hill back of Martinsville. You 
just come across the ferry, go up the road back of town to the 
big brick house by the school-house. That is Mr. Van Pelt’s 
house, and this boy with me is James Van Pelt, and they are 
friends of the slave. They will show you where I live.” She 
looked at us both earnestly as though to fasten our features in 
her memory. A strange light came into her eyes. 

“Mose” was next placed upon the platform, and the auctioneer 
began crying him off. Again the bidding became spirited between 
the two Southerners. Maxwell examined his teeth, eyes and chest, 
felt the muscles of his arms and legs, took measures around the 
chest, waist and calf of the leg and then his height. He asked 
“Mose” a few questions, which he promptly answered in a re- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


59 


spectful manner. Mose showed a kind disposition and the sad, 
thoughtful look he displayed made him friends of all who saw him. 
He was finally knocked down to Mr. Copeland for nine hundred 
dollars. Mr. Cope made no bid on this, nor the sale which fol¬ 
lowed. 

It was heart-rending to note the agony depicted on the faces 
of these three unfortunates. Here were mother and two children 
who had always lived together, and from their cultivated appear¬ 
ance and demeanor had evidently been raised by a refined and 
humane master. There seemed to be a warm and tender feeling 
between them. Each had been purchased by different owners 
and were about to be separated forever. Oh, God! will there not 
be a compensation some day for such heart-bleeding anguish. Will 
there not in the ‘‘beautiful, golden sometime,” be a balm of Gilead 
administered by the hand of the benevolent Father of All, to heal 
up these torn and lascerated afflictions of the soul! 

While “Mose” was being auctioned off, there was a long and 
earnest conversation between Lucinda and the Mulatto Sam, con¬ 
ducted in whisper, during which I noticed they both scrutinized 
my boy companion and myself closely. Maxwell was so occupied 
in the sale of Mose he did not observe it. 

“Remove the shackles from Sam and send him up here,” said 
the auctioneer from the platform. It was done, and Sam stepped 
up. His demeanor astonished every observer. He walked with 
the dignity and bearing of a prince, conscious of his royal birth, 
but chafing under a present personal indignity and wrong which 
he could not for the moment avoid, but which he confidently knew 
would sooner or later bring a fearful atonement. His complexion 
was so white, it contrasted favorably with those around him. His 
hair was long and black, and few would have judged him even a 
mulatto. He had an Anglo-Saxon head, face and nose, distinctly 
American. The lips were thin, hiding a fine white set of teeth, 
the forehead broad, square and full, and his large, dark eyes be¬ 
spoke a high degree of liberality, behind which lurked an intelligent 
resolution of purpose not to be easily thwarted. The limbs were 
well knit, sinewy and powerfully developed. He stood six feet 
three inches by actual measurement. His appearance was com¬ 
manding, not to say imposing, and it was certainly very impressive. 
As he looked down on the by-standers that morning with an air of 


6o 


The Slave Auction Block. 


half rebuke and half contempt, it produced a sense of uneasiness 
in all, which, under surrounding social and economic conditions, 
was anything but pacifying. The mutterings of the rapidly ap¬ 
proaching political storm were working on the souls of all lovers 
of true liberty, and retribution was knocking at the door. The 
hearts of all but a limited few of the spectators were touched that 
day in a manner never to be forgotten. The leaven was working. 
I had had my first awakening. I longed to be a man. I wanted to 
fight this monster, now that I had found it, but I did not know 
how. Time and circumstances subsequently showed the way, not 
only to me, but to all. 

The bidding for Sam was participated in by a number of gen¬ 
tlemen, among whom was Hughey Nichols, the owner of the ferry 
at Martinsville. Sam was subjected to the same rough examination 
by Maxwell; but when, after catching him by the shoulders and 
giving him a rough shake, he caught Sam by the chin, forced his 
head back and attempted to insert his fingers in his mouth, Sam 
quickly pushed him from him. “What do you mean by this inso¬ 
lence?” said Maxwell. In calm, deliberate and cultivated language 
came the reply: “I mean just this: I have about as much Anglo- 
Saxon blood in my veins as you. I am an xA.merican. It is true 
that under the unnatural, unjust laws of this, the country of my 
birth, I am denominated a slave. It is true I am, under our social 
and economic laws, classed with those mules hitched to that wagon 
there, but I was bred and raised by a gentleman, have imbibed the 
principles of a gentleman, and I will retain them, even while a 
slave. Even if this were not so, the meanest slave in God’s world 
has certain personal rights which no man, white or black, bond or 
free, has a right to invade or take away. My mouth is my own. 
God made it for me. I will not permit you nor any other man to 
insolently run a finger in it. The discomfort of such is sufficient 
to justify its resistance, aside from the indignity of it.” The two 
men were glaring at each other while this was being said, and the 
face of Maxwell was red with ill-concealed passion. “Did I ever 
hear such impertinence from a ‘nigger’! When I get you in Mis¬ 
sissippi I’ll take that pride out of you. A good application of the 
‘cat-o’-nine-tails’ with a little pepper and salt to heal the wounds 
and a bucking and gagging with half rations for a few weeks will 
make a better ‘nigger’ of you,” said Maxwell. “Neither the cat-o’- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


6i 


nine-tails,’ nor death itself, sir, shall prevent me from defending my 
personal rights, whether I become your slave, so-called, or the prop¬ 
erty of another,” replied Sam. There was something in Sam’s look 
as he uttered the last sentence, which Maxwell did not like, for he 
manifested little desire to own him thereafter, and he was ulti¬ 
mately sold to Mr. Copeland for $500. 

The “cat-o’-nine-tails,” or cat of nine tails, the words of which 
were usually run together and pronounced as one, was a slave- 
driver’s whip made for whipping the bare backs of the slaves, male 
and female, whenever thought desirable by the brutal slave driver, 
or master. It consisted ordinarily of a wooden handle about eigh¬ 
teen inches long and one and one-half inches thick, covered with 
thick, tough leather, loaded at the butt with a round ball of lead a 
little thicker than the handle, to be used as a weapon. A light 
blow from this would break the skull of a man. The leather ran 
on down the handle to the other end and, ordinarily, eighteen inches 
beyond. This eighteen inches of projecting leather was cut length¬ 
wise into nine round strips, each about the thickness of an ordinary 
lead pencil, and was hence called the “cat-o’-nine-tails.” A lick 
from one of these applied with much force on the naked back was 
sure to cut to the blood and leave the portions struck in a raw and 
lascerated condition. The punishment was measured by the num¬ 
ber of lashes administered, owing to the offence, or brutality of the 
slave driver. To increase the pain, salt, and sometimes salt and 
pepper, were placed on these wounds. . 

“Well, gentlemen, I now deliver the property, and you will 
step up, pay the money and get your bills of sales,” said the consta¬ 
ble. While this was being done on one side the crowd, a different 
scene was being enacted on the other. Lucinda had thrown her 
arms around the neck of her mother, and after loading her with 
kisses amid her heart-rending sobs, was still hanging on, looking 
up into her face, with the most pleading, agonizing look a human 
countenance ever wore. “Oh, mother, save me from this worse 
than death! Oh, is there no God in Heaven, mother, to protect 
the defenseless and unfortunate in times like these? You have 
always taught me there is such a God, mother; why don’t He come 
now? When I was but a babe, and father was sold to pay a 
gambling debt and taken away to die in the rice fields of South 
Carolina, you told me God would bring him back. Mother, he was 


62 


The Slave Auction Block. 


a good man, you have been a dear good woman, Mose has been a 
good boy, I have tried to be good, why don’t God do something for 
us now? Oh, mother, are you not mistaken? Is it not so there is 
no God after all, else why this awful suffering and sorrowing all 
around us? Must I never see you again, my dear, dear, old 
mother?” Here she finally patted the cheeks of poor Aunt Tilda, 
like a mother caressing an infant to sleep. The mother cast a 
look upon the child, of incomparable tenderness, mingled with 
crushing anguish, and smoothing down the glossy hair of her only 
girl baby, said, “Hush, my dear child, there is a God. He’ll surely 
come soon. Remember the song your father taught you: 

“God moves in a mysterious way 
His wonders to perform.” 

The words and touch of her mother’s hands seemed to sooth 
her. She gave her one fond embrace and a long kiss and then 
turned and threw her arms around the neck of her brother. “My 
dear, good boy,” she muttered, “let us be good and pray to God, 
and maybe sometime we will meet again. If not on earth, it will 
be in Heaven.” She clung to him with her face buried in his neck 
for some time and seemed to recover her strength and self-posses¬ 
sion in a measure. Mose threw his arms around her and held her 
warmly to him. He was visibly affected. She finally drew herself 
gently from him and stood erect with a new resolution. Her eyes 
fell on Sam, who had watched all with unspeakable suffering, 
mingled with love and admiration. Sam saw her tender look, and 
stepping up, kissed her full in the mouth. While this brought a 
blush to both, she did not resent it, and Sam seemed more a man 
for having done it. He appeared to be oblivious to all other sur¬ 
roundings. 

“Well, if that don’t beat the d—1!” cried Maxwell, who had 
observed what Sam had done. “You ‘nigger,’ fooling with my girl 
in that kind of style! Look here, you Sam, I don’t think any too 
much of you any way, and I’ll just give you the butt end of this 
loaded whip to pay you for this and your other insolence.” He 
started for Sam, who was some distance off, and who braced him¬ 
self ready for the encounter. Before Sam knew it the guard slipped 
the handcuff on his right wrist. Sam shook him off, and he went 


Bonnie Belmont. 


63 


sprawling to the ground, but the other end was still fastened to the 
loft arm of the guard, and Sam proposed to defend himself with 
his left, but Copeland stepped squarely between them, and front¬ 
ing Maxwell, said, “You’ll not touch that boy while he is my prop¬ 
erty ! You may be brutal to your own property, but you shall not 
be to mine.” “If you say I am brutal to my property, you’re a 

-“Stop right there,” quickly interposed Copeland, and 

quick as a shot the keen eye of Copeland was flashing along the 
barrel of a Colt’s revolver, pointed full at the face of Maxwell, and 
not five feet distant. “I know what you are going to say. If the 
lie crosses those lips of yours, I’ll send a bullet through your head. 
I know you, Maxwell. You know I know you. A baser villain 
does not travel the Mississippi valley. You are a disgrace to the 
slave holders of the South; for they are mainly humane and edu¬ 
cated gentlemen, who are kind to their slaves, and their slaves love 
them. It is men like you who are bringing disgrace on the whole 
system, and who will ultimately disrupt it. If such scenes as 
these, and others far worse, in which you have participated, are 
to become the order of the system, I confess I don’t care how soon 
f he whole system is abolished. Now, sir, what have you to say? 
But what you do say, do it in a respectable manner, or some one 
will be hurt.” It seemed to cool Maxwell off, and I thought I 
detected for a moment an expression just the least akin to fear in 
his face; but when Copeland ended, he coolly said, “A fine ‘Aboli¬ 
tion’ speech, that, Mr. Copeland, but all I shall say now is, you 
and I will meet ag'ain further down the river.” “That meeting will be 
quite as acceptable to me as to you, and I think I shall be prepared 
for it,” said Copeland. I noticed the latter kept his eye on Max¬ 
well until they parted, but his look was fearless and apparently 
unconcerned. Copeland noticed the handcuffs on Sam and ordered 
them taken off. 

“Who can I get to take charge of this girl until next Thursday 
evening? I am going in the country for a lot of ‘niggers’ I have 
bought there and expect to be back then and take them with this 
girl down the river on the Buckeye State, starting from the wharf 
at nine o’clock that evening. I want her brought to the boat before 
that time,” said Maxwell. “I can take charge of her for you, sir; 
I have done something in that line before.” To my astonishment 
the speaker was John Campbell, the hired man of our neighbor, 



64 


The Slave Auction Block. 


Jacob Van Pelt, who with my boy companion, James Van Pelt, his 
employer’s son, had driven to market that morning. This man 
Campbell was always an enigma in the neighborhood. No one 
knew where he came from, and he seemed disposed to talk but 
little about his antecedents. It was rumored at one time he had 
lied from Maryland to avoid punishment for assisting slaves to 
escape to Canada, but this rumor was confined to our particular 
neighborhood, and if there ever had been anything in it, it had 
gradually died out. He was a tall, bony, athletic man and wonder¬ 
fully active and quick in his movements. His resolution and daring 
knew no bounds. When aroused, he was a dangerous man, but 
he had a good heart ready to respond to a noble sentiment and he 
despised anything unfair. He entertained a deadly hatred for 
American slavery. “Where are you from, sir?” said Maxwell. 
“From Wheeling, sir,” said Campell. (He had formerly lived in 
Wheeling two months.) Maxwell hesitated as he played with his 
watch charm. “Where will you keep her?” “At my aunt’s here 
in the city,” was Campbell’s reply. “Here is our city bailiff, who 
can take care of her for you,” said the constable, presenting an 
aged looking gentleman. “He can put her in the ‘nigger pen’ (a 
kind if miserable jail lock-up for disorderly negroes kept those 
times) if you desire it, but I presume there will be no necessity 
for this, as he can get her former master, who lives not far from 
the jail on Sixteenth Street, to keep her. She will have to go there 
any way to get other wearing apparel.” “I think it better for the 
bailiff to take her,” said Maxwell. “It will be more appropriate 
and safer. I’ll pay you whatever is reasonable for your trouble, 
sir. You can keep her to suit yourself, but have her at the boat, 
mind you, before nine o’clock. I will hold you responsible for 
her.—But here, stop a moment. I want my bloodhound to get a 
scent of that girl. Here, Saffo, where is that dog?” A large, sav¬ 
age looking gray colored dog made his appearance from under the 
auction block. “There, trot that girl out there a piece ’til I can 
get him on her track.” Lucinda was made to walk out from the 
crowd some ten steps. Maxwell then trailed the dog on her tracks, 
taking him up to her and making him smell her. With this he 
turned and walked away, the dog following him. 

A bloodhound is a most wonderful animal. Once placed upon 
the track of a person it will never leave it, no matter if it be 


Bonnie Belmont. 


65 


mixed with a thousand others. They will track a fugitive through 
a densely populated city with unerring certainty many hours after. 
The great trouble lies in getting them to understand which track 
it is they are desired to follow. They will ordinarily follow the 
scent or track they first strike, or are placed upon. Much confusion 
is often experienced, not from lack of scent in the dog, but from 
lack of judgment in the owner starting them right. In this case 
Maxwell understood his business and knew he could take that dog 
and track Lucinda wherever she would make a track, even though 
they should be many hours old, provided they had not been washed 
away by rains, or otherwise destroyed. They were as fierce and 
bloodthirsty as they were unerring, and woe to the defenseless 
fugitives overtaken by them. If a runaway sought to destroy the 
scent by walking in a stream of water, the instinct of the dog 
would cause him to travel along either side of it for miles until 
he would again strike the trail where the unfortunate left the water. 
In the Civil War of 1861, the Federal soldier seldom spared the 
bloodhound or the professional negro driver. 

“Thee can go with thy daughter and stay with her until next 
Fourth day afternoon if thee desires,” said Joshua Cope to Aunt 
Tilda. “I will be down to market with a load in the afternoon, and 
take thee over to Ohio late in the evening, where thee can have a 
home among friends and be no longer a slave. The law does 
not permit slavery in Ohio.” She gave him a gratified look and 
thanked him with a most humble bow. Lucinda caught his arms, 
and looking up into his face, said, “God will bless you for this, my 
dear sir, I know He will.” “Oh, my child, my suffering now is, that 
we could do nothing for Thee. In the long, unpromising and pos¬ 
sibly terrible future, Thee will need all His tender love and care. 
Cultivate His love in Thy heart constantly and confidently. He can 
do much where we are frail and weak. It may be He will bring 
Thee all together again soon. If there, however, be no meeting 
here, Thee knows it will not be long until that final meeting.” Fie 

turned and went awav. 

•/ 

Mr. Copeland instructed the guard to take Mose and Sam to 
the “Thomas Swan” and guard them there until that boat, then 
lying at the Wheeling dock, should start down the river at ten 
o’clock that night. He was going to his plantation with them. 
He directed Mose to take leave of his mother. The parting was 


66 


The Slave Auction Block. 


most painful. Mose, like his mother, suffered silently. Such are the 
deepest sufferings. He gave her a long embrace, kissed her lips, 
and as if unable to endure the pain, was gone. Sam kissed her 
cheek, shook her hand warmly and turned away also. James 
VanPelt and I trotted along after them down to the wharf and on 
the lower deck of the boat (for we wanted to see the boat) where 
we soon left them and returned to the market house. I noticed 
when we turned the corner on the way to the boat, the eyes of 
Lucinda and her mother were following them with a last, fond 
look. When we came back the bailiff, who was a kind-hearted 
man, had, at their request, taken them to their former brief home on 
Sixteenth street, to remain together until mother and daughter 
should separate forever. 

In the death of Prometheus chained to the rock, the suffering 
consisted not so much in death, as in the agony of dying and yet 
being never dead. What must not have been the pain of four days’ 
contemplated separation between Aunt Tilda and her daughter! 
What must have been the suffering of this mother, as she saw with 
parental prescience the awful fate awaiting her child. 

The “Thomas Swan” dropped away from the dock promptly 
at ten o’clock and steamed down and diagonally across the river to 
the Ohio shore, a little below West Wheeling, to coal. After doing 
so she made for the channel a little above “Boggs Island” and was 
about one-third the breadth of the river from the west shore. Mose 
and Sam were on the lower deck. Sam was washing in a bucket, 
and apparently for this purpose, had divested himself of all his 
wearing apparel, excepting a pair of linen pants and thin muslin 
shirt. Pie completed his ablution by washing his feet, and stepping 
to the west side of the boat, threw the contents into the river. Set¬ 
ting the bucket down, he turned a swift, sweeping glance full upon 
Mose, then upon the deck hands, and with a chivalrous wave of the 
hand said, “Good-bye, boys,” and plunged headlong, as far out as he 
could jump, into the river. He went completely under and that was 
the last seen of him by those on the boat. The alarm was im¬ 
mediately given, but it took some time to inform the captain and 
get the news to Mr. Copeland, who had retired for the night. In 
the meantime the boat was some distance from where the plunge 
was made, and the night was quite dark. The deck hands had 
lowered a skiff to the water when Copeland and the captain came 


Bonnie Belmont. 


67 


down. “Two of you strike out for the shore and see if you can 
intercept him,” said the captain. “I can’t spare much time. We 
will wait on you head down stream if possible, so don’t be long. 
He is either drowned or will get to the shore about the time you 
do, and will be so exhausted you can easily capture him.” “Can he 
swim?” said the captain to Copeland. “I do not know, sir, I have 
just bought him.” “How is it, Mose?” said Copeland. “I don’t 
know, sir,” was the reply. “I don’t think these men can see thirty 
feet ahead of them on the water after they get beyond the light of 
this boat. I see a heavy storm gathering over there, and regard 
the changes of seeing him as but one in a thousand. If he is not 
an expert swimmer, he is a dead man, for this is a full river, and it 
is some distance to that shore. I can stop at Bellaire for a few 
minutes, but there is no United States marshal there, and you would 
have to depend on the citizens to do anything for you, and they 
would certainly do more to aid him to escape than to capture him. 
“There is a deputy marshal at Wheeling,” said the captain. “If they 
do not discover him I shall not bother further,” said Copeland. 
“The truth is, his purchase has given me much concern since I made 
it today more out of a sentiment, than from the dictates of good 
business judgment. I have a good set of slaves now, and they all 
seem to esteem me highly, and I have never had any trouble with 
them. I have been thinking if I take this fellow down there he may 
demoralize the whole force with this notions of liberty. I don’t 
blame him for it. He is a fine looking, intelligent fellow, and has 
too much white blood in him to remain long a slave anywhere. In 
fact, I think he much prefers death to slavery. He is in love with 
a mulatto girl up there at Wheeling, and there is no telling what 
he may not do. I think, however, he has a good heart in him 
after all.” 

After three-quarters of an hour’s fruitless search, the skiff re¬ 
turned and reported nothing of Sam, and the “Thomas Swan” re¬ 
sumed her journey down the Ohio, not even stopping at Bellaire. 

Soon from its deck, sung by the colored roustabouts, there 
floated out in African cheerfulness, one of the popular river songs of 
the day: 


“Don’t you go ’way from the Thomas Swan, 
She’s speedy and pleasant to travel on,” etc. 


68 


The Slave Auction Block. 


It seemed like a strange midnight dirge over the possibly life¬ 
less body of poor Sam. It was soon changed to a more plaintive 
air, and those dusky singers took up the soft refrain: 

“Way down upon the Suwanee River, 

Far, far away, 

There’s where my heart is turning ever, 

There’s where the old folks stay. 

All the world am sad and dreary, 

Every where I roam. 

Oh, darkies how my heart grows weary, 

Far from the old folks at home.” 

They sang it clear through, and at its close, Mose turned un¬ 
easily from his meditative mood in the hard seat on the corn sacks. 
What must not have been his bitter feelings toward a government 
claiming to be the land of liberty. He was probably thinking of his 
dear old mother and warm-hearted sister, now possibly languishing 
in the slave pen in Wheeling, with no hope, no future. 

“O masters, lords and rulers in all lands, 

How will the future reckon with this man? 

How answer his brute question in that hour 
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world? 

How will it be with kingdoms and with kings— 

When this dumb terror shall reply to God 
After the silence of the centuries? 

—Edwin Markham, 

(In “The Man With the Hoe.”) 

On the Sabbath morning following the events at the Wheeling 
market, I started by way of the Gow cemetery, as a near cut to the 
Methodist Sabbath School in Martinsville, which I attended, and 
of which church, you will remember, our father was a prominent 
member. As I approached the top of the hill in this cemetery, from 
a dense cluster of blackberry vines and alder bushes the head and 
eyes of Sam Alexander rose above the cluster and stared me full in 
the face not twenty feet distant. “Are you not one of the boys I 
saw yesterday at the Wheeling market, and who followed us 
down to the boat?” said he, eagerly. “I am,” I replied. “Do you 
know a man by the name of John Campbell, who was there yester- 












- 



























































'V'&i 


Jacob Van Pelt 

Who resided on the hill vest of, and in full view, of Martins 
Ferry, and whose house was the first station of the 
“Underground Railroad" from the 
Ohio River. 





Bonnie Belmont. 


69 

day ? He told me to run away and come up here somewhere and 
he would help me to escape. He said he lived at a large two-story 
brick house, close by a log schoolhouse on the river hill back of 
Martinsville. He told me the name of the owner, but I have for¬ 
gotten it.” “Was it Jacob VanPelt’s?” said I. “That is it,” he re¬ 
plied. “Well then,” I rejoined, “you have made no mistake, that is 
Mr. VanPelt’s not six hundred yards from here, and that is the log 
schoolhouse. I go to school there.” “Will you not help a poor un¬ 
fortunate to obtain his freedom by going down there and asking 
Campbell to come up here, and say nothing to a living soul about 
it?” said Sam. “I think it best for us to go down to VanPelt’s or¬ 
chard, just back of the house, and I will bring Campbell to you in 
the alder bushes there. We can slip along this briery fence and not 
be seen except when we cross the road, and Pll watch out for that. 
T want you to escape and will tell nobody,” I said. “God bless you, 
my noble boy, Pll go with you,” he replied. When Sam extricated 
himself from the briers he presented a sorry appearance. He had 
nothing on but a thin shirt and a pair of light pants, suspenderless. 
He was hatless and in his bare feet, which were scratched some. 
His eyes were watching in every direction and he listened intently 
at times, as if trying to detect any distant sounds. “How did you 
get here?” I asked, as we slipped along in bending positions 
wherever the weeds and briers were low. “I jumped off the boat 
below Wheeling about eleven o’clock last night and swam to the 
Ohio shore. I am a good swimmer. I walked along the shore in 
the water so they could not follow me with the bloodhounds, until 
I got to a little run at the lower end of the town, walked up it in the 
water until it was taking me too near the town, when I struck out 
for the top of the hill, where I saw this brick house and log school- 
house, and concluded this must be the place.” When I got Sam to 
a large bunch of alders in the lower end of the orchard, I said: 
“Now, you see that woods on the west side of us comes close up to 
this orchard. That is a large woods and extends unbroken down 
across Buckeye Run to Glen’s Run, a few hundred yards further 
down, and clear up Glen’s Run to its headwaters, near Cope’s mill. 
If I do not get Campbell for you I will come back and tell you, but 
if anything should happen, you take this woods, crossing Buckeye 
Run, and keep the woods on this side of Glen’s Run, going up it 
until you come to where there is a house on this side the run and 


70 


The Slave Auction Block. 


a mill just opposite on the other. That is Joshua Cope's. He will 
take care of you. That is what they call one of the stations on 
the ‘Underground Railroad,’ over which the slaves escape to Ca¬ 
nada.” “Yes, yes, they told me about that,” said Sam, “that is 
where Aunt Tilda is.” “No,” I said, “she is staying with Lucinda 
in Wheeling until they take Lucinda down the river on the 
boat.” I found Jacob VanPelt walking in the yard. He asked me 
if I was going to Sabbath school. I told him I was, and asked if 
Campbell was about. “He has just gone to the barn to turn the 
horses out to pasture,” he replied. 

I went up and found Campbell, delivered my message, told him 
of Sam’s escape, that he was hungry and nearly naked. We went 
toward the house and he told me to remain standing where I was 
until he talked with Mr. VanPelt about the horses for a moment. 
I had my doubts as to the subject of his conversation with Mr. 
VanPelt, but I kept my own counsel. Jacob VanPelt was classed 
as an “Abolitionist,” and it had been whispered about that his 
house was the first station from the Virginia shore, after that of Joel 
Wood in Martinsville, of that strange, undiscoverable “Under¬ 
ground Railroad.” He was a wealthy, enlightened, hospitable gen¬ 
tleman, free hearted, with noble and liberal instincts. He was a 
great factor in shaping the social conduct and early refinement of 
our neighborhood, and I do not see how we could well have done 
without him. He early taught us the blessed, refining and chris¬ 
tianizing acquirement of singing when the square note system was 
in vogue, and later when the round system was introduced. He did 
this gratuitously, leading the singing schools, and very frequently 
the spelling schools in that whole section. He was a resolute, fear¬ 
less man, but was always for peace, and a great pacifier of disputants. 
Being quite genial, the young folks loved him, and he, with his 
hospitable wife and splendid family of children, made his house 
the favorite resort where the country and town society often met in 
most happy social intercourse. Mr. VanPelt soon came to me and,, 
taking me to the front of the house, in a kindly manner, most likely 
to impress me and as though half taking me into his confidence, told 
me I had better say nothing to anyone, not even my parents, about 
having brought the negro Sam to his orchard, as it was a crime 
against the United States to help slaves to escape. My father and 
he were bosom friends, both members of the same church, and for 


Bonnie Belmont. 


7 1 


a moment I thought his suggestion strange, but when I remembered 
our father was a Democrat, I replied: “I shall say nothing about it, 
Mr. VanPelt, to anyone. I know my father is a Democrat, but I’d 
help that man to escape and get his freedom if my own father were 
trying to catch him, after what I saw yesterday.” He looked at 
me with astonishment for a moment, and then slowly said: “Your 
lather is an honest, Christian man. I am satisfied he despises slav¬ 
ery in his heart. He will not be a Democrat much longer; but I 
think it best you say nothing to anyone of this, and now I presume 
it is time you were hurrying on to Sabbath School, as I hear the first 
bell ringing.” I went down the road meditating as to what would 
become of Sam. It is due to both Democrats and Whigs of our 
neighborhood, and I thing it held good all over the free states at 
that time, to say that none of them would ever give aid in the 
capture of a fugitive slave and his return to bondage. On the con¬ 
trary, many of them aided in their escape. Two notable instances 
recur to me. One bitterly cold winter night, just preceding the in¬ 
cidents I am relating, one of these fugitives who had crossed the 
river on the ice, the river being frozen over, came to our home just 
after dark and asked for something to eat. Father questioned him 
closely and found he was striking for his liberty. He gave him 
plenty to eat, furnished him with warm clothing, and then con¬ 
ducted him through the woods to Joshua Cope’s. Our father made 
a clean statement to Mr. Cope and asked him to aid the man. Cope 
looked father hard in the face for a few seconds and said: “Robert, 
is thee trying to get me into trouble? Thee is a Democrat. The 
Democrats are in favor of slavery and now have charge of the gov¬ 
ernment. It is a grave criminal offense under our present fugitive 
slave law to aid in the escape of a slave. Thee knows it is a very 
heavy fine and a long term of years in the penitentiary. Thee 
knows more than this. Thee knows this law makes bloodhounds 
of Thee and me to help recapture this man. Thee knows if the 
rnan claiming to be the owner of this boy were to come along here 
after he leaves this house, and orders Thee and me to go with him 
to aid in his capture and return to slavery, that under that law we 
would have to go instantly, or incur fine and imprisonment, even 
though we had to leave the death-bed of a wife or child. Robert, 
thy Democratic laws are terrible.” Our father rose uneasily from 
his seat before the fire, and facing Mr. Cope, said: “It is true I am 
a Democrat, and fully aware of the law you speak of. But there 


72 


The Slave Auction Block. 


is a higher law governing me in these duties to my fellow man, and 
to which I owe a greater fealty than to my party, or to that law. I 
will not refuse to aid a fellow sufferer to gain his freedom.” “Then, 
Robert, Thee is in the wrong party,” said Cope. “I know of no or¬ 
ganized party now opposing slavery, with which either you or I 
could vote,” said father. “I am at heart deeply opposed to this in¬ 
human system of slavery, Joshua. There are at present other po¬ 
litical and economic issues presented in the platforms of both the 
Whig and Democratic parties, but when the question of slavery is 
squarely presented, I shall unhesitatingly vote against it. Now, 
Joshua, I have done my duty to this man. I will leave you to do 
yours in the manner best becoming your conscientious feelings. So 
I will leave him here and bid you good-night.” “One moment, 
Robert. I know Thee to be a good neighbor and an honest man. 
Thee has seen fit to trust me, I think I can trust Thee. I will take 
care of the boy.” On another occasion a colored fugitive applied 
at the dwelling of our neighbor, Joseph Blackford, for food, and in¬ 
structions as to the way, and cordially receiving both, was also di¬ 
rected to the house of Isaac Vickers, further on, but the unfortunate 
slave was subsequently recaptured on his road to Mt. Pleasant, 
through his own carelessness. The Blackford family were all 
Democrats, but their humane instincts outweighed party devotion. 
Two of them subsequently became ministers of the gospel, one be¬ 
coming a missionary, one a physician and mayor of Martins Ferry, 
O. Sam was dressed up in an entirely different suit of clothes and 
taken on horseback by Campbell to Tom Pointer’s, a colored man 
who resided in the log tenement house on our father’s farm on 
Buckeye Run. This was done to break the trail. Tom Pointer had 
been a mulatto slave in Virginia, whose master had manumitted 
him when quite young, and he had become a part of our neighbor¬ 
hood long years before. He was forty years old and was a strong, 
active man of resolution, of quick, cunning expediency, and his 
name had been associated with many a “runaway.” The ceiling to 
this cabin was of boards closely nailed, and while there was ap¬ 
parently no opening to it, yet there was in reality a small garret. 
When Campbell and Sam arrived at Tom’s, both riding the horse, 
Sam remained mounted while Campbell alighted and talked to Tom 
awhile. Tom drew a short ladder from under the porch, and going 
into the house, placed it up against one of the boards in the ceiling 
near the side and lifted it up. It was four feet long, extending from 


Bonnie Belmont. 


73 


one ceiling joist to the other. He placed the ladder in the opening 
thus formed and rested the other end on the floor. He then went 
out with Campbell and had a short talk with Sam. The latter got 
off the horse and on Campbell s back without touching the ground 
and was carried to the ladder and then climbed up it into the garret. 
Mrs. Pointer then washed the ladder and rounds with scalding 
water, dusting it with cayenne pepper. After relating to Tom all 
that had happened, they conversed for some time in a whisper, and 
telling Tom he would be back to report the outlook on Tuesday 
night, and would then see him about the other matter, he left. He 
went back by way of an old deserted log cabin on the VanPelt farm 
on the point formed by the junction of a little spring rivulet which 
puts down from the VanPelt orchard back of the schoolhouse, with 
Buckeye Run. It was called the Clark cabin, as it was occupied for 
a time by Adam Clark, a wounded veteran of the Mexican war, foi 
whom Jacob VanPelt had built it and given him a home in it free 
of charge. It stood two miles from the Ohio river back of Martins 
Ferry in Ohio, in a straight line, but was over three by the road. 
It had a half story above, /which was approached by a ladder from 
the outside. Clark was the hero of our particular neighborhood, 
because he was the only returned soldier we had in it. Captain 
Andrew Grubb, of Bridgeport, and Mike Grubb, of Martinsville, had 
been his army companions, but Adam was our country hero. In 
p>arrying a thrust from a Mexican spear, the tendons of his left hand 
were severed in such manner as to cause the fingers and thumb to 
touch each other in an extended and stiffened condition. At an en¬ 
tertainment given at the VanPelt schoolhouse at one time, which 
all the neighborhood attended, among other things of interest ex¬ 
hibited by the traveling showman, was a vessel of water charged 
with electricity from a galvanic battery. In this water the exhibitor 
placed a half dollar which any one could have, provided he lifted it 
out with his naked hand. Of course, all failed, as the hand would 
double up into a clenched fist as soon as inserted. Adam Clark 
placed his left hand in and drew out the coin amid die plaudits of 
the audience. The showman placed another half dollar in, gave the 
water a double electric charge, and Clark took it out and placed it 
in his pocket with a smile. The showman then examined his hand, 
and Clark was barred after that. This left hand saved Clark’s life 
in the Mexican war, for he caught the blow aimed full at his neck 
with it, and with the other shot the Mexican dead with a pistol. 


74 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


Lucinda and Sam Escape 

O N Wednesday evening, as the sun had set behind the Ohio 
hills, John Campbell drove a team and wagon loaded with 
two bushel sacks filled with bran, on the ferry boat oppo¬ 
site Martinsville as it was leaving the Virginia shore. The ferry 
landing on the Ohio side was at the foot of Washington street, and 
from this point the road wound up past the present Belmont brew¬ 
ery, thence past the old Woolen factory, doubling around the pres¬ 
ent residence of Mr. Geo. H. Smith, thence over the Joel Wood 
'‘goose neck” by the “Elm Spring,” on up through the or¬ 
chard of Theodore Burris, passing over the hill between the 
cut at the toll gate, and the Joseph Finny mansion, thence on down 
the northeast, and right hand side of the little run leading from the 
cut to Glens Run at the Thomas Mitchell mill. There was no road 
from the cut on the left of that run at that time as there now is in 
the pike, and the land on both sides was heavily timbered. 
The road forked at the summit of the hill at the cut, one branch of it 
going by way of the VanPelt mansion to the State road at the old 
Tavern. The main road passed up Glen’s Run from the Mitchell 
mill a short distance, where it again forked, one branch going to the 
right to Mt. Pleasant, and the other up Glen’s Run past Cope’s mill 
to Colerain. The road up Buckeye Run then, as now, intercepted 
the Glen’s Run road at the bridge over Glen’s Run at the mouth of 
Buckeye Run. As soon as the ferry boat landed on the Ohio side, 
Campbell drove up this river road, then called the Mt Pleasant 
road, without stopping in town. The Virginia side of the ferry 
landing could be plainly seen from two or three points on this road. 
Campbell’s load did not seem to be heavy and he hurried along. 
The next trip the ferry made to the Virginia shore, the covered 
wagon of Joshua Cope, with Aunt Tilda and himself in it, drove on 
the boat. Nothing uncommon could be noticed on the calm, col¬ 
lected face of the latter. Aunt Tilda did not wear that distressed, 
meditative look noticeable on the previous Saturday. It seemed to 
have given way to an apprehensive uneasiness at times, to be re- 






















. 




' 





































































Joel Wood 

Abolitionist; and at whose home in Walnut Grove f Martins¬ 
ville, the fugitive slaves frequently sought shelter 
and were assisted to freedom. 










Bonnie Belmont. 


75 


placed with a look of profound hope and trustful confidence. When 
Cope’s wagon landed on the Ohio side, Campbell had arrived at the 
Joel Wood “goose neck” in full view of the landing on the Virginia 
shore. It was growing dusk rapidly, but in the gloaming of the 
evening he saw two men on horseback on the opposite shore. He 
could hear them calling to the ferrymen on the Ohio side, but 
could not distinguish what they said. The men on horseback were 
Maxwell and a deputy United States marshal by the name of Wick¬ 
ham. The bloodhound was with them. “Why don’t you bring 
that boat over here?” yelled Maxwell at the top of his voice. “This 
boat does not run after night, it has made its last trip for today, and 
besides, our steam gauge is out of order and we are fixing it,” was 
the reply. “But our business is urgent, sir. It involves a loss of 
valuable property and we must get over without a moment’s delay,” 
said Maxwell. “I can send a skiff over for you,” said Fry Manahan, 
the pilot. “We don’t want a skiff, we must have our horses with 
us; we want that boat. This is a United States marshal who is with 
me; we are after an escaped slave and we warn you now, the United 
States will hold you to a strict accountability for your refusal.” 
“That is all right,” said Jack Long, who then had the ferry leased 
from Hughey Nichols, “but if the United States marshal thinks he 
can fix this steam valve sooner than we, I will send him a skiff and 
have him come and do it. As a mere matter of accommodation to 
the United States, I will come over with the boat just as soon as 
it is repaired, although it will be an infringement of our rules.” 
Long looked toward Manahan and gave a low chuckle at his 
victorious diplomacy. The pounding and repairing on the boat 
continued for a full half hour, during which time the impatience of 
Maxwell worked him into a rage, which found vent in his frequent 
threats, which he yelled with all his force at the owners of the boat. 
When the boat finally moved off, it probably made the slowest trip 
of its life. The truth is, Long and Manahan had made the mistake 
of presuming Aunt Tilda was the escaped slave wanted, and they 
desired to give Joshua Cope time to get a sufficient way into the 
country. When they stepped on the ferryboat the marshal said: 
“Who controls this boat?“ “I do, sir,” said Long. “In the name 
of the United States I place you under arrest,” said the marshal. 
“For what crime, sir?” said Long. “For assisting in the escape of a 
slave,” said the marshal. “Where is the warrant for my arrest?” 


/6 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


said Long. “I need none. I have taken you in the act. I saw that 
covered wagon with that negro in it, drive off your boat as we came 
up, and you have purposely delayed it to aid her to escape,” said the 
marshal. “I did not know that old woman was a slave,” said Long. 
“She was with Joshua Cope, and I did not think he would be guilty 
of any such crime, and as to delaying the boat, I will be ready to 
meet that when the time comes.” “Do you pretend to say there 
was no other female negro on that wagon but an old one?” said 
Maxwell. “There was no one in that wagon excepting Cope and 
an old, fleshy colored woman,” said Long. “I believe the man is 
lying,” said Maxwell, “but why are we not moving?” “Gentlemen,” 
said Long, “I am under arrest in the state of Virginia. When I am 
under arrest here, this boat is under arrest. The laws of the United 
States do not permit this boat to run without two men to man her, 
an experienced licensed pilot and likewise an engineer. I am going 
into Wheeling to answer my arrest, and this leaves the boat to be 
run by the pilot alone, which is against the law. He can take his 
risk and take you over if he likes.” “Which I shall not only not do,” 
interposed Manahan, “but I shall report the man who does.” Max¬ 
well and Wickham conversed aside for a few moments, when the 
latter returning, said: “Very well, sir, if there was no other negro 
woman or girl in that wagon excepting Aunt Tilda, as you state, I 
will release you from arrest. It is a young negro woman we are 
after,” said the marshal. “She was not in that wagon and has not 
crossed here to my knowledge,” said Long. “Very well, move the 
boat,” said Maxwell. “Am I released from arrest?” said Long. 
“You are,” replied Wickham. The boat moved to the Ohio shore, 
but all this had taken up time, and it was now dark. When Camp¬ 
bell saw the two men at the Virginia landing, he drove briskly up 
the road to the top of the hill near the present “cut,” where it forked 
leading past the VanPelt mansion. He was met here by Tom 
Pointer. “Where are the horses?” said Campbell. “I don’t know. 
I left my boy Joe to have them here, but I can't find the black rascal 
anywhere,” said Tom. “This may cost us our liberty,” said Camp¬ 
bell, “but we have no time to lose, for the men in pursuit have 
arrived on the opposite side of the river, and were just now halloo- 
mg to the ferryman on this side. They will be up here in a few 
minutes. I think they have the dog with them. Here, you drive 
the wagon up into the VanPelt barn, take the horses out, put them 


Bonnie Belmont. 


77 


in the stable, and join me down on Buckeye Run below the old 
Clark house. I'll take Lucinda down to it and place her in the gar¬ 
ret until we can find Joe with the horses, and we can then take her 
on.” Campbell threw the top sacks, which were lying cross¬ 
wise of the wagon bed, to one side, and Lucinda crawled out from 
between the bottom sacks, which were placed lengthwise, leaving 
an open space between, which she had occupied. “How have you 
stood it, Lucinda?” said Campbell. “Bravely,” she replied, “though 
I am a little tired.” “We will have to deceive the nose of that dog 
some way,” said Campbell. “Had the horses been here they could 
never have followed.” He took Lucinda on his back from the 
wagon, and carrying her down the road a little distance, had her get 
off his back on the fence, over which they both climbed and made 
their way as rapidly as possible through the woods to the deserted 
Clark cabin. The ladder was standing on the outside leading to the 
half story above, and up this Lucinda ascended, with the injunction 
from Campbell to remain quiet until he came again. He then car¬ 
ried the ladder about fifty yards away and threw it in the weeds. 
Poor Lucinda! She had passed through a hard experience. The 
sacks had pressed down on her, the jolting of the rough road 
wagon had made her sore, and the added trip through the woods 
and briers had wearied her. She sat down on a box in the old gar¬ 
ret and wept. Joshua Cope bad stopped in town after crossing 
the ferry to transact some business, and had arrived at the “goose 
neck” when overtaken by Maxwell and Wickham. The latter 
thrust a pistol in Cope’s face and ordered him to stop. He promptly 
did so. “I want that girl out of that wagon,” said Wickham. “Take 
down that pistol. Thee has no right to be pointing a loaded 
weapon at me in that kind of style. I have no one in here but Aunt 
Tilda,” said Joshua. “I can scarcely believe the fellow; unfasten 
those curtains and examine the wagon, Maxwell,” said Wickham. 
Maxwell did so and found nothing but a few empty flour sacks and 
some groceries in a basket. “What have you done with her?” de¬ 
manded Wickham. “Who does Thee refer to?” said Joshua. “You 
know who we refer to. It is the colored girl, Lucinda,” he replied. 
“T have not seen her since last seventh day, at the market house, and 
know absolutely nothing of her,” replied Cope. “Whose wagon was 
that which crossed the ferry ahead of you?” said Maxwell. “I saw 
no wagon,” was the calm, collected reply of Cope. “Where is your 


78 Lucinda and Sam Escape. 

daughter, Aunt Tilda?” said Wickham. ‘T don’t know, sah,” said 
Tilda. “Where did you see her last?” “De las’ time I seed her 
was at Massa Goshon’s, sah, in Wheelin’, befo’ I dun start to de 
market house to meet Massa Cope hea.” said Tilda. “I am sure 
the negress is lying,” said Maxwell. “Here, let me pull her out of 
there and give her a lashing with the whip. I’ll bring it out of her.” 
“Pon my soul, I don’ know nothin’ ’bout Cinda, deed I don’t, sah,” 
cried Tilda in great fear as she sprang to the other side of the 
wagon. Maxwell attempted to follow her by climbing upon it, but 
Cope pushed him off, saying: “Thee shall not touch her.” “Do 
you know that is a United States officer, and that we are in search 
of an escaped negro slave?” said Maxwell, glaring vindictively at 
Cope. “I know if that is a United States officer, he has already vio¬ 
lated the laws of my state by stopping me in the public highway 
and wantonly, and without a cause, thrusting a deadly weapon in 
my face when no one was resisting him, and that you have made 
an assault on both of us for which you both can and will be arrested 
before you leave the state, if I have my way,” said Cope in a cool, 
collected manner. This appeared to dampen their ardor somewhat, 
for Wickham called Maxwell to him and remarked there might be 
a possibility they were on the wrong scent, and if Cope really had 
nothing to do with Lucinda’s escape, their conduct might be con¬ 
strued as a violation of the criminal laws of Ohio. Maxwell replied 
he had some doubts as to Lucinda having been in the wagon at all, 
as his dog would have given some indication of it, which he had not, 
even though he had raised his nose to the back end of the wagon. 
“What had we best do?” said Maxwell. “I think we had better go 
out the road a piece and see if we can get trace of that wagon, 
though they say it was loaded with flour sacks. If we get no clew 
we can ascertain further tomorrow. There is a strong probability 
she is in Wheeling yet, hiding and watching an opportunity to join 
her mother. We are not among friends over here. There is not 
one of them who would not aid a slave to escape, and especially a 
woman. We will have to be careful,” said Wickham. They left 
Joshua Cope behind and rode over the summit of the hill. When 
they arrived opposite the point where Lucinda and Campbell 
crossed the fence, the bloodhound immediately gave “tongue” and 
sprang over the fence. “He has struck her trail as sure as the 
world,” said Maxwell. “He is probably on the track of some ani- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


79 


nial,” said Wickham. “Not a bit of it. That dog never fails. He 
is on the track of the girl. Pull down that fence and let us mount 
and follow him.” Suiting his actions to his words, he tore down 
the fence and mounting, followed the dog, holding him in check by 
admonishing words occasionally, so as to be near and not lose sight 
of him. By an unerring instinct the dog followed the trail until 
they arrived at the cabin, where poor Lucinda was waiting with 
anxious expectation for the return of Campbell. When her ear 
caught the sound of the bloodhound, she hoped it might be some 
dog of the neighborhood, and she dropped on her knees to pray. 
She was still praying when the pursuers arrived at the house. The 
dog stopped at the point where the foot of the ladder had rested. 
He seemed at fault and his master urged him on. He took a circle 
around the house and came back to the same point. Wickham tried 
the door, but it was nailed. He crawled in at the window, struck 
a match and found the house was empty. He sighted up the chim¬ 
ney. They then looked under the house and saw nothing. Max¬ 
well went to the dog and ordered him to make a wider circle 
around the cabin. He did so, and was returning, when Maxwell 
cried out, “Wider, sir, wider!” and motioned him off with his hand. 
The dog obeyed, and presently a sound from him over in the direc¬ 
tion where Campbell had thrown the ladder, gave evidence he had 
found something. Maxwell went to him and his foot struck the 
ladder. The dog had his nose close to one of the rounds. “Come 
off there, you fool you, what are you deceiving me so for? Have 
you no sense any more?” said Maxwell, as he gave the dog a kick. 
He looked in the face of his master pleadingly, ran back to the 
house, and was sitting where the ladder had stood when Maxwell 
returned. “I am at my wits end. I never had that dog deceive 
me that way before,” said Maxwell. “She don’t seem to be here. I 
told you he was on some animal’s track, probably a coon’s,” said 
Wickham. “I’d like to know what is in that garret ; how do they 
get in there?” said Maxwell. “There are no stairs nor opening from 
the inside, for I looked particularly,” rejoined Wickham. “Stop,” 
said Maxwell, “see that dog looking up at that garret door and 
whining. By the powers, I see it all now. That dog has more sense 
than both of us, only he can’t talk. Wait a moment until I bring 
that ladder.” He brought it and when placed in the door, the dog 
jumped around in gleeful anticipation. “She’s up there as sure as 


8 o 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


the world,” said Maxwell. Lucinda had fainted and was just recov¬ 
ering - when they found her. ‘‘Now, by the powers that be, I 11 give 
you the ‘cat-o’-nine-tails’ and a casing of straight-jacket when I get 
you on the boat,” said Maxwell, “I’ll make you pay for this, and pay 
tor it dearly. I think I’ll give you a good whipping now,” he said 
as he began to draw his whip. “Do not strike her in her present 
weakened condition,” said Wickham, “for we will have hard enough 
task to get her home as she is.” Maxwell saw the good judgment in 
this suggestion and refrained. “We had better take this road down 
the run for we can’t go back through those thickets and briers with 
this girl,” said Maxwell. “I intend to make her walk, however.” 
He began tieing a rope around the left wrist of Lucinda. “You are 
hurting me very much by the tight manner in which you are tying 
that rope,” said Lucinda, tremblingly. “That’s what I am trying to 
do. I do not intend you shall get loose again. You deserve the 
hurting and I intend you shall receive it,” replied Maxwell. Lu¬ 
cinda bore it in great pain. They led their captive and horses down 
the little point to the Buckeye Run road, when the men mounted. 
“You had better let me take that girl up behind me, we will get on 
faster than to have her walk; we are full three miles from Wheel¬ 
ing, as we will have to go to the mill down here before we strike 
the road direct to the river. She will not be able to stand it. I can 
take her up behind me and.you can tie her to me with the rope ii 
you desire. I do not like the idea of riding and having that 
girl walk,” said Wickham. The truth is, the almost white, beseech¬ 
ing and kind face of Lucinda, which Wickham for the first time 
beheld by a lighted match when he found her prostrate form in the 
old garret, coupled with the heartless brutality of Maxwell, had 
made an impression on him ; a remorseful feeling had begun to fill 
his heart, and he wanted to release the rope on her wrist, which he 
knew must be hurting her. “I will do nothing of the kind,” said 
Maxwell. “She has brought it all on herself by running away, and 
I can do nothing with her until I completely crush her. I have had 
sufficient experience in these matters to know how to act. This 
spirit of liberty must have heroic treatment. You can go ahead 
with her and I will follow. If she attempts to escape I will send a 
ball through her and be done with the whole business.” “If you kill 
that girl in the State of Ohio you will hang for it, sir,” said Wick¬ 
ham as he loosed the rope from his saddle where Maxwell had tied 


Bonnie Belmont. 


8 i 


it, and took it in his hand. “My state of Mississippi would nevei 
permit it,” said Maxwell. “I guess the State of Ohio would pay lit¬ 
tle attention to Mississippi once she got possession of your body,’ 
was the reply. “That is something they would not get,” replied 
Maxwell, “but why have you released that rope from the saddle? 
Do not you know she may escape?” “I don’t see how she can es¬ 
cape with your pistol and that dog, and I holding the rope. With 
this rope tied to the saddle I do not know what might happen, and 
I be blamed for it. If the horse should become scared and run 
away, that girl would be dragged to death,” was the reply. “Your 
apprehensions are very chimerical,” said Maxwell. “Possibly as 
much so as yours when you tied that rope so unmercifully tight 
around that girl’s wrist.” “I want to say to you right here, I came 
out here as a United States officer to aid you in recovering your 
property. I did not come to be made a brute of, nor to make a 
brute of others. The dignity and authority of the United States 
are neither upheld by -the treatment this girl is now receiving, and 
I intend to release her wrist and put her on this horse just as soon 
as we strike the main road and get out of this darkness. She is in 
my charge now as an officer, and I shall place you under arrest if 
you interfere.” Wickham said this with a determined asperity, and 
Maxwell saw he intended to do it, and made no reply. They had 
reached a point on the Buckeye Run road near its junction with the 
Glen’s Run road at its darkest point. Lucinda, notwithstanding the 
rough, stony road and the pain she was suffering, was listening in¬ 
tently to their colloquy. She imagined she had a half friend in 
Wickham, and that if she were to jerk the rope loose and make a 
dash for liberty among the weeds and bushes in the darkness, he 
would make little effort to recapture her. She then thought of 
the dog, and for a moment her resolution failed. It occurred to her 
that Campbell, with possibly other friends, was near and might 
come to her aid if noise were made. She thought of the fate await¬ 
ing her in Mississippi; that she would never see her dear old mother 
again and those she loved, and so determined she would far rather 
die there by the pistol shot, or by the mangling wounds of the 
bloodhound. She made a leap over the bank toward the run, some 
twenty feet below. Pier weight and momentum dragged Wickham 
from the saddle, and in his fall he hung on to the bridle rein, which 
caused the horse to make a rapid whirl around over the rope, 


82 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


throwing him completely under the horse, which stepped on his 
right arm, breaking it, while he was knocked into a state of insensi¬ 
bility by a blundering stroke of the horse’s hoof on the head in try¬ 
ing to extricate itself. Maxwell sent a shot after the unfortunate 
girl, who gave a scream, and the bloodhound leaped over the bank 
upon her just as she had pulled the rope to her and was regaining 
her feet. At this instant two tall men sprang from the bushes at 
the side of the road. One with his face so concealed he could not 
be recognized, sprang with the agility of a panther over the bank, 
and with one blow from an axe which he carried, drove it into the 
skull of the dog clear up to the pole. The animal died without a 
struggle. The moon was just rising, and as the other man ap¬ 
proached Maxwell, a strip of moonlight through the trees fell full 
in his face. “Ha ! Campbell, you scoundrel, I know you ! Take that 
for your rascality!” As Maxwell said this he fired direct at Camp'- 
bell’s face. The latter was too quick for him and sprang to one side. 
“If you know me then come off there!” said Campbell, as he struck 
him a fearful blow with a wagon spoke. Maxwell fell senseless to 
the ground with a broken jaw and bruised head. Campbell fastened 
the horses of Maxwell and Wickham near them, took their weapons, 
and joining Lucinda and her companion, they ran down the road a 
short distance, where Tom Pointer, with two horses, was concealed. 
“Here, Sam, get on that horse and get Lucinda up behind you. 
Now, Tom, get on that other horse and all ride for your lives for 
Cope’s mill.. You had better come back home through the woods, 
Tom. They have not seen you and they did not recognize Sam. 
That fellow knew me, and I must either go back there and finish 
him or light out. I don’t want his blood on my hands, so I guess 
I'll go. Good-bye, Sam! Good-bye, Lucinda,” said Campbell as he 
extended his hand to each. “I know you will gain your liberty. It 
is not the first time I have extended aid to your race, and I don’t 
think it will be the last if this accursed traffic is not broken up. I 
will not see either of you again, perhaps forever, and now go, and 
go rapidly.” “God bless you!” cried Lucinda, as the horses started 
off in a gallop. Campbell listened as the clatter of the hoofs died 
away up Glen’s Run and turning, plunged rapidly into the woods 
toward the VanPelt mansion. It was the last the Belmont county 
hills ever saw of kind-hearted John Campbell. 


































































































































Cope’s Mill 

It stands just across the road from the Cope dwelling, and is 
now converted into a steam mill. The room in the side 
of the hill where Lucinda zoas concealed, zvas located 
about where the present smoke-stack is; the 
mill race, chute, and zmter wheel being 
between the smoke-stack and mill. 








Bonnie Belmont. 


83 


Cope’s mill, near the headwaters of Glen’s Run, is some 
four miles from Martins Ferry and five from Wheeling. 
The chute of this mill had a fall of some twenty feet 
from the tail gate of the mill-race to the ground when 
the wheel was not running. The end of the mill-race terminated in 
a stone wall built crosswise of the mouth of it and some twenty-two 
feet long. From the face of this wall three slanting stone pilasters, 
or supports, were built out, one at each end and one in the middle. 
They extended some thirty feet from the wall at its base to nothing 
at the top, thus forming a kind of triangular pilaster of each,' and 
leaving two spaces of seven feet each between. The great water 
wheel of the mill occupied one of these spaces next the road, its 
buckets coming close up to the wall to receive the water from the 
chute when running, the axle of the wheel resting in two of these 
pilaster walls. The other space at the side of the wheel and next 
the hill, was used for the waste chute. Joists extended from one to 
the other of the chute pilasters and two-inch boards were extended 
and nailed on them lengthwise from the sill on top of the stone wall 
to the foot of the pilaster, some thirty-five feet from the wall and 
past the wheel. This formed the waste chute when the mill was not 
running and also to carry off any surplus water. The hill against 
which the side pilaster of the chute was built, extended much fur¬ 
ther out and high above it. A board in the center of this chute was 
loose and when lifted, formed an entrance by which a person could 
pass under. This board was provided with fastenings on 
the underside and could be safely closed by any one beneath. No 
one from the outside would for a moment suppose this plank was 

t 

movable. On the underside of this chute, a small door in the stone 
pilaster, or wall against the hill, closed an entrance opening into a 
small room in the hill. This room was provided with a cot, two 
chairs, a small table with a few other household articles, and was 
quite comfortable in summer and winter. 

Within twenty minutes after leaving Campbell, the fugi¬ 
tives dashed their tired horses up to this chute. Tom Pointer 
and Sam dismounted in the water and with their combined 
strength raised the plank. They then carried Lucinda and 
passed her through the opening under the chute. Tom then 
entered and led her through the door into the mill. “It is very 
dark, but I will bring a light and something to eat presently,” said 


8 4 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


Tom. As he came out a man on horseback was passing down the 
road, but the mill was between and he passed on without observing 
them. Tom went quickly to the kitchen of the Cope dwelling, 
bringing back a large well-filled basket, a pitcher of milk, a jug of 
water, keeping in the stream as far as possible in going and coming. 
He took them to the little room and lighted a candle. “There is 
plenty to eat,” said he, “and you will be supplied from time to time 
with what you need. You must never answer any call unless you 
first hear three loud sounds from a whistle and hear your first name 
called three times. You must even then be sure it is a friend. The 
door into this room can be fastened by this strong bar which drops 
into these open iron staples. The plank in the chute out here is ar¬ 
ranged the same way and you must place these short bars in it 
when I go out. You will have to remain here a few days until this 
“breeze” blows over outside, when we will take you on to friends, in 
Oberlin, Ohio, where sooner or later, you may meet Sam, who is 
now going with me. You must never tell any one of this place, 
or of any one of us, or of anything which has happened, for other 
poor slaves may want to escape the same way. This job today 
would place us all in the penitentiary if it were known.” It was a 
doleful sight to see the three, as they stood in the little dungeon-like 
room while Tom delivered this last injunction by the flickering light 
of that old-fashioned candle, with the possibility, nay, probability, 
they would never all see each other again. “Be assured I will 
die before I disclose anything, but oh, where is mother?” said Lu¬ 
cinda. “She is over at Mr. Cope’s house, not a hundred yards from 
you, and you will get to see her every day or so,” said Tom, “but 
you will have to be patient for this will raise a storm outside, I tell 
you.” Sam could not resist giving Lucinda a kiss as they parted, 
and he and Tom then replaced the plank. Sam washed the axe in 
the water, they mounted their horses and took the woods and most 
unfrequented ways to Tom’s cabin. 

On coming to consciousness, Wickham found Maxwell in a bad 
condition. While he was conscious, he could not reply intelligibly 
to Wickham’s questions, and the latter soon discovered his jaw was 
broken and the cheek bone fractured. Wickham was suffering him¬ 
self from his broken arm and injured head. His first quandary was 
to know what to do. He saw a light a few hundred yards distant, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


8S 


and telling Maxwell to remain where he lay prostrate on the road¬ 
side, he made his way to this light. He found Thomas Williams, 
who then resided at the junction of Buckeye with Glen’s Run. 
With the aid of Williams and his son Joshua, they were taken in a 
spring wagon by way of Bridgeport that night to Wheeling. His 
slaves were sent on to their destination, but Maxwell was compelled 
to remain long weeks confined to his room under charge of physi¬ 
cians. During this time, and subsequently, he spared no effort to 
recover Lucinda. Long and Manahan were arrested in hopes of 
obtaining some clue, but no sufficient evidence could be produced 
showing that they knew anything of her, or had any participation in 
her escape. A warrant was issued for Campbell, but he left the 
country and was not seen again. There seemed to have been no 
effort made to capture Sam. Indeed, his escape was not known 
until the return of the “Thomas Swan” to Wheeling, and the state¬ 
ment brought that his master did not desire his recapture. Sam 
remained two weeks with Tom and then shoved on to the northern 
part of the state by way of the mysterious Underground Railroad. 
He had the pleasure of seeing Lucinda once more before bis de¬ 
parture, and it is probable they had some understanding as to their 
future, for Lucinda soon started on her invisible journey. 

It was thought best that Aunt Tilda should, for a time at least, 
not know where Lucinda was taken in order to avoid all possibility 
of discovery. After Sam left, Aunt Tilda went to live with Tom 
Pointer, as officers in search of Lucinda had already made a mid¬ 
night descent upon, and search of the Cope premises, which was the 
second one since her escape. The first was in the day time on the 
day following her rescue. They found the mill going and Joshua 
Cope in the mill. It was near the noon hour and two of the officers 
guarded the house, while two others went to the mill. When they 
stated their mission, Joshua moved a lever which turned the water 
from the wheel, stopped the mill, and at the same time raised the 
tail gate at the chute, turning the water down over it. He very po¬ 
litely informed them they could examine all the premises. They 
searched every nook and corner of the mill and even took a look at 
the chute, but the water pouring down over it satisfied them and 
they went to the house. A more searching examination followed 
there, with a like result. They then attempted to intimidate Aunt 
Tilda by threats and otherwise, but she resolutely told them she 


86 


Lucinda and Sam Escape. 


did not know where her daughter was, and that she would not give 
them the information if she did. In this she was technically right, 
for she had not yet seen Lucinda, nor had Cope seen her. After a 
while, as you know, Aunt Tilda made her home with us. You no 
doubt remember what a devoted, Christian hearted, noble creature 
she was. What a patient, kind God-mother she proved to us? I 
imagine I can still see her in the large old armed rocker as in the 
evening gloaming she used to rock backward and forward, singing 
her song, with the favorite chorus: 

“The old ship of Zion will anchor bye and bye.” 

“The old ship of Zion will anchor bye and bye.” 

I have often wondered what I would not give for the confiding, 
Christian faith of Aunt Tilda. For even if there should be nothing 
in it so far as a future life is concerned, yet, what a world of com¬ 
fort and consolation there is in it in this. I think nothing on earth 
could have shaken her faith, that the deliverance of her people was 
soon to come. This faith appeared then to be all that was left to 
the poor slave, and yet, that deliverance was near. The revolution 
of 1861 was fast gathering. A God of justice was working upon the 
hearts of the people. The unpaid toil of three million bondsmen, 
subsequently and so sublimely spoken of by Abraham Lincoln, was 
about to be recompensed by a terrible price in blood. How pro¬ 
phetic and yet how plaintive, the words of that noblest of men in his 
second inaugural, when the issue of war still hung trembling in the 
balance, and the hearts of all were humbled and chastened. Hear 
him: 

“Both read the same Bible, and pray to the same God, and each 
invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any 
men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their 
bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us not judge, that 
we be not judged. The prayers of both could not be answered; 
that of neither has been answered fully. The Almighty has His 
own purposes. Woe unto the world because of offenses! For it 
must needs be that offenses come; but w'oe to that man by whom 
the offense cometh. If we shall suppose American slavery is one 
of those offenses which, in the providence of God, must needs come, 
but which, having continued through His appointed time, He now 


Bonnie Belmont. 


87 


wills to remove, and that He gives to both North and South this 
terrible war, as the woe due to those by whom the offense came, 
shall we discern therein any departure from those divine attributes 
which the believers in a loving God always ascribe to Him ? Fond¬ 
ly do we hope, fervently do we pray, that this mighty scourge of 
war may speedily pass away. Yet, if God wills that it continues 
until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty 
years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood 
drawn by the lash shall be paid by a thousand drawn with the 
sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, 
‘The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’ 
With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the 
right, as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the 
work we are in; to bind up the nation’s wounds; to care for him 
who shall have borne the battle, and for his widows and his or¬ 
phans ; to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting 
peace among ourselves and with all nations.” 


88 


Courting at Singing School. 


Courting at Singing School. 

T O most boys, farm life appears a monotonous round. And 
yet, compared with the lives of those in the city workshops, 
factories, offices and other occupations, it is a veritable para¬ 
dise. The most discouraging feature of farm life to the young, and 
that which drives many of them to the cities, and often to a mis¬ 
taken and less independent calling, is the lack of social opportuni¬ 
ties. A home on the farm should have plenty of the latest music, 
with all the available musical instruments, and music should be 
taught and singing schools established in every school district and 
neighborhood. The home should be supplied with all the literature 
possible. Such things make poets, statesmen, scholars and PresP 
dents. The routine of work on our farm, you will remember, was 
anything but encouraging. In fact, it was discouraging. And yet, 
it was like all others at that time in our section. Awakened at 
irom three to four o’clock in the mornings, owing to the seasons, the 
milking, currying and gearing of the horses, feeding of the stock 
and other small chores, were done before daylight, breakfast eaten 
by candle light, and we were on our way to the fields, or other 
work, as day was breaking. We would return from work at dusk, 
and this same routine of chore work would be repeated after dark, 
and supper be eaten by candle light. Such work is slavery. It is 
not life in its true sense. Sooner or later it has its effects, and 
the young man or woman becomes discouraged and justifiably dis¬ 
gusted with such living. 

Jacob VanPelt was one of the pioneers of correct thought on 
this question, and he early instituted singing schools in our section. 
He was the ideal of the young people in the community and they all 
loved him. It afforded a pleasurable occasion once a week at the 
VanPelt schoolhouse, as it was known, now known as the River- 
view schoolhouse, where the young, and old for that matter, could 
meet and cultivate the social side of life. They were a source of 
great delight to Jack, for there he could get to see and be with 
Minerva. She took little interest in singing, so far as participating 


Bonnie Belmont. 


89 


in singing herself, though she seemed to love music. She was more 
of a literary and philosophic turn of mind. She was a good mathe¬ 
matician and very practical. Her judgment was always correct and 
her discrimination very acute. Jack’s admiration for her was ex¬ 
alted, not to say worshipful. She was his ideal of womanhood. 
He tried to conceal it, and yet he wanted her to know it. He 
never could muster courage to tell her. He wanted her to ask him. 
But this she would certainly never have done. He was watching 
every opportunity and occasion to observe if she discriminated in 
his favor. It seldom came, and then in such shape as to leave him 
half in doubt. He courted her approbation by many actions calcu¬ 
lated to draw her out. I think she saw this, and while she gave 
where it was deserved, she was not overly warm in extending it. 
He thought he discovered her less demonstrative toward others, 
however, and this encouraged him. I am impressed now they were 
both so young then, she scarcely could have thought of love, and 
yet, I don’t know. It is a long time since then, and those days 
seem strange and weird, though very sacred. He lives them over 
again occasionally, and they are very precious. What is the meaning, 
any way, in this life of ours, of this tender love for memories of the 
past? How miserly we cherish them? Is it whisperings of a future 
state? A promise of a life to be? Is there such a thing as a future 
iiie where we shall know, and be known? Where these sacred 
memories of loved ones gone shall be brightened by the Son of 
Righteousness? If not, why this sad, sacred, hopeful longing? 

“It must be so, Plato, thou reasonest well! 

Else why this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 

This longing after immortality?” 

What a pacifier to the surging, troubled soul singing is ! What 
a balm it pours in upon the bleeding heart! Music certainly drives 
away malice. It was not infrequent in those days at literary socie¬ 
ties, spelling schools and other gatherings of a like nature after 
night, to have occasional altercations and fights among those of the 
rougher element who sometimes imposed themselves on the better 
class, but I do not remember in all my experience to have seen 
such occur at a singing school gathering. I have been impressed 
in later years that the melody of song drives all malice from the 
heart and calls out the nobler instincts to such an extent as to cause 


90 


Courting at Singing School. 


this most happifying result. It is singular what a good feeling 
seemed to exist among all present on these singing occasions at the 
close of the evening’s exercises. All apparently were filled with 
cordiality of sweet song, and every one went home happy, excepting 
some poor unfortunate who was so unlucky as to get ‘‘the sack” 
from his best girl. This most frequently occurred at the door when 
the young ladies were going out at the breaking up of the evening 
exercises. The boys ordinarily lined themselves outside the door, 
watching for the opportunity to mercilessly guy the unfortunate one 
who had met his Waterloo. Such a trifling occurrence would be 
the talk of the neighborhood for weeks, and the victim of their jibes 
would felicitate himself when he could have another victim to share 
the burden with him. The more diplomatic quietly ascertained dur¬ 
ing the evening whether his company would meet with the approba¬ 
tion of his favorite lady, and thus gain a victory over the onlookers, 
even though he should meet with quiet defeat in his polite offer of 
gallantry. It is singular what concern those not otherwise inter¬ 
ested, often took in the solution of the question whether this or 
that young gentleman would be permitted to accompany this or 
that young lady. I have even known bets made on it, when the 
parties making them were not in the least concerned; and their zeal 
at times became sheer impertinence. 

Jack embraced these opportunities by walking with Minerva on 
the road home as far as my grandfather’s, not attempting, however, 
to go near her until after leaving the schoolhouse, as the better part 
of discretion. As many others were going the same road, their 
talks were seldom disturbed. He became early impressed with her 
agreeable disposition. Her address was always pleasant, and he 
never recollected to have seen her angry. She always turned the con¬ 
versation into an intellectual and refined vein, as though a natural 
field of thought to her. She seemed to have no such thing as jeal¬ 
ousy in her soul or thoughts. I do not now wonder that Jack 
loved her. What a pride he took in her later as she developed into 
lovely womanhood. I think she noticed this and appreciated it. 
She seemed more kindly in her manner toward him as he grew into 
manhood, and their thoughts and ideas became more matured. The 
years drew themselves lazily along, and for ten years their school 
days together were the most pleasant and happy. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


9i 


Some years after the incidents of the auction block, when the 
issues on slavery were being more distinctly drawn, Minerva said 
to me: “I notice you are unalterably and resolutely opposed to 
slavery. Will you tell me why this is so when your antecedents 
are so decidedly the other way?” “You are just the least bit mis¬ 
taken as to some of my antecedents on this question, Minerva. My 
ancestors, since the birth of the party, have all been Democrats, 
and consequently in favor of slavery, some of them being slave¬ 
owners, but my father, while a Democrat, is bitterly opposed to 
slavery.” “I have heard as much,” she replied, “and I cannot well 
imagine how as good as a man as he could feel otherwise, but I 
notice you go much further and denounce both the Whig and 
Democratic parties for ever having endorsed slavery. In fact, you 
are a bitter abolitionist. Why is this?” “I do not know what you 
fully imply by the word ‘bitter,’ Minerva. If a condition of social 
conduct toward our fellow men is so base and criminal that it is as 
revolting in its every aspect as this institution of slavery, the 
sooner that bitterness is intensified against it, the sooner the curse 
will be removed, which will be for the betterment of all concerned. 
My country and its people are assuming a terrible responsibility in 
its continuance, and bitterly will they have to answer for it, sooner 
or later. If I mistake not the signs of the times, the reckoning for 
this crime is near at hand. I have not answered your ques¬ 
tion as to why I am so bitter. I can not do it fully now, for the 
safety of others is involved. I hope to tell you some day, however, 
and will, when this is no longer the case,” I replied. “But will you 
not give me some intimation that will satisfy a curiosity I have had 
for some time? I have been watching the trend of your thoughts 
on these public questions, and not without deep interest. I observe 
you think for yourself, and I feel you are right. But I notice you 
have become so much more intense in your feelings on these mat¬ 
ters quite recently, and I know something is the cause of it. I have 
viewed the stand you have taken with gratification, not to say ad¬ 
miration, and I want to tell you so. I have possibly become too 
deeply interested and pressed the question further than I should. 
You know a woman’s curiosity is proverbial,” she said. 

It is hard to describe what cheer these words gave me. Why 
this close observation of my trend of thoughts and conduct? “I 
am going to make a confession,” I said, “and disclose to you a part 
only of what has transpired under my own observation, which has 


92 


Courting at Singing School. 


awakened me to the enormity of this great social evil and has 
changed my ideas on the present order of affairs. The other por¬ 
tion I will tell you later, I hope, for there is nothing in reason which 
I would not disclose to you.” I then related to her what I had seen 
at the auction block in Wheeling, in the most eloquent and fervent 
language and sentiment I could command. I noticed she listened 
intently, and that tears were in her eyes when I came to the heart¬ 
rending separation of Aunt Tilda and Lucinda from poor Mose. 
“Now, Minerva,” I said, “I cannot go further in this drama now. 
There is a sequel to it partially worked out and of which I 
am cognizant, but on account of the reason already given I dare 
not disclose now, but will some time, I hope. This is the most I 
have ever disclosed to any one so far. There is but one person, our 
mutual friend, Jack Salisbury, beside myself who can tell you, but 
when all danger is past I will tell you more, and all.” She looked 
at me as though a new light had dawned on her thoughts, and then 
said, “I will see Jack. He will tell me if you do not.” 

Soon after this, when Jack and Minerva were together, she 
said, “Oh, tell me! Did you aid in the escape of Lucinda?” “I have 
told you what happened at Wheeling,” he replied, and avoided her 
look. “I see,” she said. “I will not further invade your secret now, but 
I want to say to you, if you did, you were right, and you have no 
idea how I admire you for the manly stand you have taken on this 
growing question.” Jack turned, and looking her full in the face, 
said: “Minerva, you possibly have little conception what comfort 
you bring me in saying you have an admiration for me, or for any¬ 
thing I do. You have always been so reserved in your actions to¬ 
ward me, so miserly, if you will allow me, of that which I have al¬ 
ways so longed for since ever I first knew you, so often avoided my 
anxious inquiries of word and action, though heretofore made in an 
indirect manner, that may I not hope the admiration which you have 
just expressed will some time, if it has not already done so, ripen 
into something dearer?” When he ended she blushed more deeply 
and her look was one of embarrassment not unmingled with fright 
at the gravity the conversation had assumed. She looked from him 
toward the ground and was silent for some time. He stood immov¬ 
able, waiting a reply. She knew he was still looking at her. 
Finally, she with great deliberation said : “I trust you will not give 
too great significance to my expression. When I used the word 
‘admiration/ I did not intend to draw you out in the manner I have, 


-A 


Bonnie Belmont. 93 

nor did I expect our conversation to assume the gravity it has. Sup¬ 
pose we let this matter pass for the present?” “But Minerva, I 
have loved you for long years. You know I have, and in all this 
time you have given no outward sign so far as I have been able to 
judge, that you reciprocated this feeling in the least. During all 
these years I have patiently waited and hoped. I think I have been 
respectful and I have tried not to impose my love or attention upon 
you so as to become a burden. But we are growing into woman¬ 
hood and manhood now, our futures are taking shape, and I do 
think I should know whether my affections are to receive no re¬ 
sponse.” “But,” she said slowly, “You and I are too young to form 
that matured judgment on a matter of such grave importance. It is 
some years yet before either of us, under the law, will be permitted 
to assume such sovereignty over ourselves and our affairs. We 
are growing in intellectuality, discrimination, judgment, physical 
and mental culture, and indeed in all the elements of manhood and 
womanhood, and it is far better to defer a matter on which there 
is no urgency, and oh which we can throw a better light, and to 
which we can bring a better judgment later on.” 

“But Minerva, your words are too cold and philosophic. I know, 
and have long admired the rectitude of your judgment on all mat¬ 
ters, and have no less admired the deliberate coolness with which 
you always arrive at them. Indeed, you have been a profound 
study to me on these points; but on this question of the heart’s best 
affections is there no principle to be invoked but cool, deliberate 
judgment? Is there no inner monitor suggesting this is a matter of 
the heart, and not of cold, dispassioned argument? It seems to me 
there is a spontaneity in true love which ignores all philosophizing.” 
He paused for a reply. “Still,” she said softly, “many fatal mistakes 
have been made in love affairs and these mistakes are most frequent 
in early youth. The romantic impulses of youth are often con¬ 
strued into love, which fact is not discovered until too late.” 
“Granting what you say to be true, Minerva, can you not even now, 
after the long years we have known each other, give me some en¬ 
couragement for the future, some token whereby I may live and 
hope?” he said. “If I were to do so,” she replied, “I might be doing 
an injustice to one, or possibly both of us. What good could come 
by extending an encouragement, no matter how much I may desire 
it, which in the end might be a disappointment to either? Would 


94 


Courting at Singing School. 


it not be far better to await the judgment of our more mature years, 
when mistakes are not so likely to be made?” “But Minerva, it 
makes life so hard and distasteful to me to be treated so coldly by 
you. Could you not make some little discrimination in my favor 
as we go along, to give me at least an occasional spark of pleasure? 
Even though you know I love you, yet there is not one of your ac¬ 
quaintances who does not receive as favorable recognition at your 
hands as I. This makes me feel I have no merit in me whatever, 
and it discourages me from a source I would rather receive encour¬ 
agement, than anything else on the earth. She meditated for a mo¬ 
ment, and replied: “Are you quite sure this is the case? Can you 
not look back to many, yes, very many, incidents in our lives, when 
you have been favored above all others, and in many of them to a 
most marked degree? In fact, in some of these instances I have 
felt it was too pronounced, and that you would think less of me 
for it.” 

“May I take that as a half confession of what I am asking for, 
Minerva?” he asked. “No, no,” she replied quickly, with a 
laugh, though she blushed more deeply than I had yet seen, “You 
must take nothing for granted whatever. What was it I said, any¬ 
way?” After a few moments’ reflection, she continued, “Now 
seriously, I will not retract any admission I have made, and if it 
gives you any consolation you know I am the last one who would 
deprive you of it. You must not build any hope upon it, however, 
I let it stand solely for the pleasure it may bring you in the mean¬ 
time, but you must not attempt to make it a predicate for a promise 
of any kind in the future. This is what must be. When you af 
rive at manhood, and I at womanhood, we must both be free, abso¬ 
lutely free, to then do as our judgments dictate on this question. 
Now will you not be satisfied with this decree?” “I presume I shall 
have to. It is a matter in which you are imperial; but it destroys 
all rhetoric of the heart,” he replied. “I will try and not be despotic 
in it, and I shall strive to be more partial in my conduct hereafter 
for your especial accommodation,” she rejoined, half reproachfully. 
“You have no conception how I shall look for and appreciate that 
partiality,” he rejoined. She gave him a smiling look which had 
more of tenderness in it than anything he had ever noticed before. 
In fact, this whole interview was a source of great pleasure which 
he cherished for long years thereafter, and even to this hour. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


95 


The Apple Paring. 

A RESPECTABLE apple paring is not an unpleasant affair. 

It is fun, wit ana enjoyment mingled with work. Very 
frequently it is accompanied with a taffy pulling at the 
close of the evening. This was usually conducted by the young 
folks of the neighborhood, and most ordinarily utilized as a varia¬ 
tion from other amusements. Besides, it was frequently helping 
out a neighbor who was behind with his work. 

Few farm families of our time were without the long strings 
of dried apples hung on poles in the garret, or out of the way 
places from the flies and insects. The apples were pared, quartered 
and cored, and then strung on strings by means of a darning needle 
run through their centers. These, when dried, formed a supply 
for apple sauce or apple pies until the fruiting season came again. 
Large baskets of apples properly distributed were surrounded by 
groups of congenial spirits, with pans and tubs in which to throw 
the fruits of their labors, while the stringers were performing their 
part. The girl who got a hollow-cored apple was liable to pay the 
penalty with a kiss. 

What joyous times were had at these apple parings! The 
jokes flew free and plentiful, and sometimes the apples. Fre¬ 
quently, after the work was over, the evening would be concluded 
with a dance. 

One of the most pleasant of these apple parings occurred at 
the large mansion of Mr. Joseph S. Chandler, near the Tavern. 
This mansion was the largest and most imposing in the neighbor¬ 
hood, and the farm one of the finest. It had been presented Mrs. 
Chandler by her father, John Hogg, of Mt. Pleasant, and being 
quite wealthy, he had spared no pains in its improvements. 

Mr. and Mrs. Chandler were splendid people, and they and 
their children were most hospitable and entertaining. Their eldest 
son, Charles B., and Jack have been bosom friends from boyhood 
to the present hour, and though he now resides in Iowa and Jack 


96 


The Apple Paring. 


has not seen him since they both returned from the war, yet an 
occasional exchange of letters revives the memories and affections 
of former days. The young people always enjoyed going to 
Chandler’s. Being people of education and refinement, their enter¬ 
tainments were high-toned and elevating. Mr. Chandler took de¬ 
light in being plentifully supplied with the best historic, scientific 
and literary works of the day, including the weekly, and later, the 
daily papers. Jack spent much of his leisure time at Chandler’s, 
as did also Minerva. Many of his sweetest recollections are hours 
spent with her at Chandler’s. A few of us used to go there on 
Saturday evenings to read and hear read the latest literary works 
and newspapers of the week. Our brother Robert, you will no 
doubt remember, was a good reader, as was also Mr. Chandler, 
and they would read to the remainder of us alternately, as each 
became fatigued. Later, this reading was participated in by 
Minerva, my friend Charles and myself. One novel which deeply 
interested Minerva and Jack was “Forest Rose.” In Jack's fancy 

he imagined himself “Captain May,” and Minerva, “Forest Rose.” 

\ 

Some of the most pleasurable occasions were when the two 
younger sisters of Mrs. Chandler, the Misses Annie and Cassie 
Hogg, of Mt. Pleasant, would visit the Chandler home. On these 
visits, horse-back rides, carriage drives, moonlight strolls, evening 
parties, visits to neighbors, maple-sugar making and kindred social 
enjoyments would be indulged in and greatly enjoyed. In fancy 
I can yet see Mrs. Chandler’s ample sideboard loaded with apples 
and cider, doughnuts and chestnuts, which so largely contributed 
to the enjoyment and vivacity of the social circles gathered around 
their large comfortable fires on the long winter and fall evenings, 
when the Misses Hogg were enjoying an outing at the Chandler 
home. Alas! the elder of them, with Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, now 
lies silently sleeping under the willows. It is a satisfaction to 
still have the younger, now Mrs. Cassie Fogle, for a near neighbor 
and dear friend. 

I shall always feel grateful we had such good people as Chan¬ 
dlers for neighbors. What a blessed thing it is to have a good 
neighbor. It helps to lessen many a sorrow and fill up many 
social voids. The surroundings of the Chandler home were very 
inviting, and the memories of sweet hours spent with them are 
many and varied. They seem too sacred to relate, and I am 



Joseph S. Chandler 

Abolitionist; and father of my friend, Charley Chandler, 

referred to in this work. 


* 












Bonnie Belmont. 


97 

almost persuaded I am indulging in a lack of sanctity in adverting 
to them. I feel they are something to be treasured in silence. 

“Still o’er these scenes my memory wakes, 

And fondly broods with miser care, 

Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear.” 

—Burns. 

On the night in question a large circle of friends were 
guests at the Chandler mansion, and a few were there from 
Bridgeport and Martins Ferry. From the former place was a 
young gentleman some three years older than Jack, of most pleas¬ 
ing address and fine appearance. He was dressed to “kill” in the 
latest style, was an excellent conversationalist of most insinuating 
manners, and seemed to realize his power in these accomplishments. 
His parents were wealthy, and he was regarded as one of the 
society leaders. To the ordinary observer he made a favorable 
impression; but to a person of fine discrimination there was ob¬ 
servable a degree of superficiality, legitimately the result of a 
ball-room life. Among the people present on this occasion, he 
realized his importance more forcibly than ordinarily. I watched 
him critically, for I saw he was particularly desirous of making 
himself acceptable to Minerva, and he spared no opportunity to 
make his every attention to her quite marked. He was the ideal 
of some of the other young ladies present and seemed to have com¬ 
pletely captivated them. Minerva’s deliberate, formal manner non¬ 
plussed him, and losing some of his self-confidence, he committed 
errors in his zeal to fascinate her. I could see she enjoyed 
his perplexity, and this gave some relief to Jack’s jealousy, though 
he did not for a moment doubt the result of his hollow blandish¬ 
ments. As a result of his importunities, Jack had but little of 
Minerva’s society until toward the close of the evening. Jack 
knew he was overdoing matters with a woman of such critical 
conception and practical discrimination as she, and he determined 
to give him free latitude. It was a delightful moonlight night and 
after the apple paring the larger portion of the guests were, arm in 
arm, enjoying a promenade along the long porch, through the 
large dining and sitting rooms and thence to the porch again. 
Minerva, leaning upon the arm of her city acquaintance, was at 


9 8 


The Apple Paring. 


his polite request indulging in the parade. Jack was at the library 
examining some recent works when Minerva, by an adroit move¬ 
ment, stopped him close beside Jack and began questioning her 
new acquaintance as to his knowledge and familiarity with historic 
and literary works. He seemed remarkably deficient in the whole 
field over which she was travelling and attempted frequently to 
change the conversation, in which if he succeeded for a moment, 
he was soon again brought face to face with the subject she was 
pursuing. If she happened to mention an author, or work, with 
whom he was familiar and showed a disposition to continue the 
talk on that particular subject, she promptly changed to one with 
which he was less familiar. His perplexity was great, and Jack 
saw she enjoyed it. Jack knew she had brought him there 
that he might enjoy it likewise. The truth is, his presump¬ 
tion was all surpassing and he was a self-opinionated egotist. 
Someone called Jack to the other room for a few minutes to aid 
in the arrangements of some literary readings and exercises to 
soon follow, and on his return he caught the faces of Minerva and 
her companion still standing apart by the library. His face was 
flushed and red as if from a sudden disappointment, and Jack im¬ 
agined he detected a trace of anger. Minerva’s was a little pale, 
but as ever, cool and unimpassioned. They exchanged a word or 
so, and, moving toward Jack, she said, “Jack, I have not 
had the pleasure of your company this evening. May I be so pre¬ 
sumptuous as to take your arm for a stroll?” “Most certainly! 
And I am highly complimented by the suggestion,” Jack said, as 
she slipped her am into his. “Let us walk out into the yard a 
little,” she remarked, “I want some fresh air. And now give an 
account of yourself. Why have you been so exclusive this evening? 
Is it really coming to this, that I am compelled to publicly ask the 
sweet favor of your company, and yet a few months ago you were 
imploring my love?” “I desired you should have ample opportu¬ 
nity to freely exercise that unrestrained thought and action which 
you then suggested we should observe until we arrive at majority,” 
Jack replied. “Ever sarcastic!” said she. “But now really, don’t 
you think I am just the least bit partial to you to-night, when I 
abandon such delightful company as I just now have for yours?” 
“If his association was so delightful, why the flushed look of anger 
on his face, and yours so pale when I entered the room, and why 


Bonnie Belmont. 


99 


did you abandon him for me?” “So you noticed it, did you? 
Well, let me tell you. I was cutting the pride of that young cox¬ 
comb for his own good, I hope. He was asking me if he could 
not accompany me home this evening, and if he might not call on 
me hereafter. I informed him I was not receiving company, and 
that while it was not positively arranged, yet I was expecting 
another gentleman to escort me home this evening. Now, do you 
know whether there is a young gentleman in this assembly who 
will be so gallant as to help me out of the dilemma by becoming 
my escort, to meet the exigencies of the occasion?” “If you will 
permit me to consider it as one of the partialities which you prom¬ 
ised, I will accept the pleasure with a double gladness,” Jack re¬ 
plied. “You can take it for what it is worth,” she said. “The truth is, 
I have been terribly bored by his attentions, and the evening has 
been anything but enjoyable to me until we started out here. 
Nothing but a complete and open rebuff seemed to satisfy him. 
Ilis vanity is appalling. That fellow imagines half the women in 
this section are in love with him. I wanted him to feel there is 
one not in that felicitous state of mind, and I think he does now. 
But tell me, why did you leave me with him so long? Did you not 
observe my imploring look more than once? Really, I had a 
notion to get angry, rather than ask you to walk with me.” “You 
have hedged me about so by your course of philosophic conduct 
laid down for us, that I scarcely know when my advances are 
desirable, or otherwise. If I knew my exact future status with you, 
there would be no hesitation on my part, and I assure you I would 
give you no cause to complain. As it is, I do not know at all times 
what to do, or rather what you desire me to do, Minerva,” said 
Jack. “You are resorting to special pleading now,” my dear sir,” 
she replied, “and I will not let you make me believe you are less 
comprehensive than you are. What in any course of philosophic 
conduct, as you are pleased to term it, which I have laid down, is 
there to prevent you being the same to me you have always been, 
may I inquire?” “I fear you will minsconstrue my intentions, 
Minerva.” “Have I ever misconstrued them before? Am I not 
quite as liberal as ever? In fact, am I not more considerate of 
your feelings and of you?” she rejoined. 

Her eyes beamed full upon Jack under the shadows of the 
apple-tree, and when he softly slipped his right hand into hers, 


LOf C. 


IOO 


The Apple Paring. 


which she was still resting on his arm, she made no effort to with¬ 
draw it. “Minerva,” he said deliberately, “I am not going to permit 
you to have a misconception of me. I owe you an apology for any 
seeming neglect, and I am going to explain. I have been laboring 
with dull feeling in my heart ever since you waived aside my avowal 
of love some three months ago. It may be that some of my 
actions since then have been just the least tinged with resentment. 
In my attachment for you I could not then see the wisdom of your 
course. My knowledge of your always correct judgment, and sub¬ 
sequent reflection, have convinced me of the absolute correctness 
of your position then assumed. By your actions to-night, you have 
filled me with a more profound love and admiration, and I cannot 
see how I can ever live happily without you. In the great future 
I shall ever so live as to be found worthy the love of so noble a 
woman, hoping, that when the time does come which you have 
fixed for a reply, our love may be mutual and equal.” “That is 
well and nobly said,” she rejoined, “and now that we are on com¬ 
mon ground again, I want the old feeling between us to prevail. 
I desire you to have that same confidence in me I have always 
had in you, and if any fancied slight or neglect presents itself, let 
us banish it at once. Now, when I have pinned this bouquet of Fall 
flowers to your lapel, let us return to the house, for you know I 
am down for a reading and comments, and you for a production 
from Burns and some reflections on his life.” 

Minerva’s rendition of David’s lament over the death of 
Absalom, and her comments over the divided duties of a king to 
a dead son, his distracted and divided people, and to a general who, 
though disobeying his explicit orders, had established him firmly 
upon his throne, were pathetic and instructive. She received the 
hearty applause of the company, as she always did. 

Jack’s reading of “Mary in Heaven” was received with appro¬ 
bation; but in his dissertation on its author, the allegation that 
Burns was a Christian at heart, stirred up considerable disappro¬ 
bation and criticism from a rigidly righteous minister present, 
who charged the poet with being a skeptical, profane, immoral 
drunkard. In this he was supported by our whilom friend from 
the town. Minerva came to Jack’s aid by saying the true point oi 
difference between Jack and his critics lay in the fact that the 
latter were unable to discriminate between true Christianity and 


Bonnie Belmont. 


ioi 


the orthodoxy of the day; that the fulminations from the pulpit of 
many of the present orthodox divines were not according to Christ, 
but according to badly distorted dogmas and creeds; that she 
assumed the speaker had used the term in its true and broader 
sense, and in this view she concurred with his statements. Burns 
was distinctly a child of nature. He took in the whole world. He 
despised sectarian bigotry. “The stars my camp, the Deity my 
light,” was his motto. I regard the true Christian heart to be one 
full of every day practical love to God and its fellow men. Any 
one familiar with Burns’ works could not fail to observe he had 
a heart overflowing with such love. That, if the forms and dogmas 
of orthodoxy as frequently promulgated and practiced were true 
Christianity, then the great poet did not have a Christian heart, 
but one far better. That possibly much of the pious invectives 
hurled at him, was due to this, and his caustic satire on this kind 
oi misconceived Christianity, as exemplified in his inimitable “Holy 
Willies’ Prayer,” “Address to the Unco Good,” and other produc¬ 
tions. 

“Here some are thinkin’ on their sins, 

An’ some upo’ their claes; 

Ane curses feet that ky’d his shins, 

Anither sighs an’ prays.” 

“On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi’ screw’d-up, grace-proud faces; 

On that, a set o’ chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winkin’ on the lasses.” 

Some other comments followed, pro and con, when Jack closed 
the discussion, as he had a right, by remarking that Miss Patterson 
had construed his observation correctly. 

The charge of profanity had not been proven, and under the 
light of facts and a more liberal education, it was being abandoned 
even by his most virulent, fanatical detractors. As to his immoral¬ 
ity, Jack said he did not know what was fully intended to be com¬ 
prehended in the word, unless it be the immorality of drink, as the 
great author’s honesty of purpose had never been questioned. He 
was a kind husband, good neighbor and citizen, was not given to 
gambling or anything of a kindred nature, had filled public office 


102 


The Apple Paring. 


honestly and acceptably, and no such charge could possibly stand in 
the effulgent light of his glorious “Cotter’s Saturday Night.” His 
drunkenness, if such it might be termed, was exceedingly limited, 
and confined to a few evenings of convivial social enjoyment with 
boon companions. These were the result probably of unguarded 
youth, grief at the early loss of his beloved Mary, and a heart over¬ 
flowing with good fellowship. They lasted but a short period of 
his life. 

No one could read his ode, “To Mary in Heaven,” and other 
productions, and say he did not believe in a God and true Chris¬ 
tianity. He was aware of the frailties of life, and was grandly 
charitable toward others. 

“The cleanest corn that e’er was dight, 

May hae some piles o’ chaff in; 

So ne’er a fellow-creature slight 
For random fits o’ daffin’.” 

“Then gently scan your brother man 
Still gentler sister woman; 

Tho’ they may gang a kenning wra.ng, 

To step aside is human. 

“Who made the heart, 'tis he alone 
Decidedly can try us; 

He knows each chord—its various tone; 

Each spring—its various bias ; 

Then at the balance let’s be mute, 

We never can adjust it; 

What’s done we partly may compute, 

But know not what’s resisted.” 

“These extracts from nature’s great poet, show us his noble 
heart, and I leave them with you,” said Jack. 

“Jack escorted Minerva home that night, going by way of the 
old State Road, as it gave a longer and more pleasant walk. “You 
helped me out admirably tonight,” Jack said, “and I am profoundly 
grateful. But for you I do not know but that I would have re- 



Joshua Cope 

Abolitionist , and owner of Cope’s Mill, which nfas the second 
station west from Martins Ferry on the 
“U iid ergro mid R a Hr o ad: ’ 










■ , ■ , 8 




















' 








| 












. 













' 


























Bonnie Belmont. 


103 


ceived a regular church disciplining at the hands of that minister 
and your friend from town.” “I am not so certain you did not de¬ 
serve a part of it,” she said. “The truth is, there are some features 
in the life and character of Burns which I do not like; but his great 
charity for others begets a like charity for him, and then I did not 
like the narrow manner of their criticism. It was uncharitable. I 
think they went away more deeply impressed with this best of 
graces.” 

Jack bade Minerva good-night at her home near the Tavern, 
and meditatively took his way home. The night was a most de¬ 
lightful one, and as he reached the summit of the hill, which would 
soon hide her home from view, he turned in the moonlight to take 
a last view of it. She was still standing at the gate. There was a 
mutual wave of handkerchiefs, and they had parted. 

Jack felt he could look back at that night as one of the most 
happy of all his life. Minerva’s actions and bearing toward him, 
coupled with their conversation, had filled him with a joy unspeak¬ 
able. He felt Minerva loved him. And yet he was not entirely 
free from doubts. If she did, might it not be of that tentative na¬ 
ture, easily supplanted by possible future rivalry? Might it not be 
she was studying her own heart and trying to reason herself into 
a belief that she did, or could, love him? She had had few other 
male associates, certainly none she preferred to him, but would this 
always be so? The world was before them, and she was every day 
growing into greater loveliness and intellectuality. Would not 
such a woman become as pronouncedly attractive to others as to 
him, and would not some more eligible offer come to her? If so, 
how would she meet it? He was waiting, hoping, doubting. The 
time came when it was answered fully. 


104 


Some Farm Scraps. 


Some Farm Scraps. 

F ARM life is not without its many scraps of fun and enjoy¬ 
ment in a family of seven boys and four girls, as ours was. 
The girls sometimes had a trying time of it among so many 
boys. A new beau brought home by one of them was considered 
our legitimate prey until he had established himself in our good 
fellowship, and woe to the one who could not stand a joke. When 
once fairly initiated and accepted though, he was considered one of 
the crowd and a good fellow. 

On one occasion a young physician, Dr. John Majors, who was 
paying his addresses to sister, and who subsequently married 
her, brought with his for the first time, a neighbor friend, 
Wilson Stringer, who had taken a fancy to one of our other sisters. 
Stringer was a good fellow and loved a joke. He was one of the 
most rapid talkers I ever knew. He and the doctor were both fine 
violinists and had their violins with them. It was during the Holi¬ 
days. After a musical with the piano, guitar and violins, the ladies 
and gentlemen had seated themselves before the fire for an evening 
chat. Suddenly their attention was directed to Stringer’s violin at 
their backs, waltzing all over the floor with a violent internal com¬ 
motion. The boys, unobserved, had taken the violin outside, placed 
a whole pack of firecrackers inside it, started the fuse and quietly 
slipped it inside the room. Every time an explosion took place the 
violin made a jump. Dr. Majors and the girls took in the situation 
at a glance. To the former, who was a good laugher, it was a 
source of much merriment, while to the latter it, of course, was 
quite embarrassing. Stringer stood gazing at his violin in amaze¬ 
ment and half anger. He was too polite to visit his resentment on 
the boys in the presence of their sisters, and yet he felt his pent up 
wrath must have some means of escape. Dr. Majors was laughing 
more heartily at every movement of the violin. Stringer turned 
upon him, and in his quick, jerky manner said, “Well, I like to see 
a fellow laugh when there is anything to laugh at, but when I see 
a fellow laugh and laugh and laugh; and then go ahead and laugh, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


io5 


laugh, laugh, I think he’s an everlasting fool.” This was said in 
the most quick, vehement manner possible. At this explosion Dr. 
Majors rolled off his chair on the floor and laughed immoderately. 
Stringer looked at him a moment, not knowing whether to laugh 
or swear, but finally his good nature came back to him and he was 
soon laughing himself, at which juncture our boys came in, and 
they were soon one jolly Christmas crowd. The boys helped him 
patch up his violin, and ever after Stringer was a good fellow 
with them. 

It is singular how quickly, not only every member of the 
household, but every animal on the farm is known by its good or 
bad characteristics. One will, for instance, find in one stall in 
the stable a horse that is always doing things that are exactly 
right, while in the next, the exact reverse is the case. Of this last 
variety you will no doubt remember the mare we called Miller, 
named after the man from whom we purchased her. She was about 
the meanest horse I ever saw, and we all had a grudge against her. 

At one time, when six of us boys were plowing vegetables with 
this mare on the bottom land at the foot of the lane, some quarter 
of a mile from the house and were quite tired from the day’s work, 
a friendly dispute arose as to who should ride the horse. We com¬ 
promised by all six getting on at once. Brother Wilson, who was 
behind, and always in for mischief no matter how tired, stuck his 
heel in Miller’s flank, and then began some of the liveliest kicking 
and running on record. She kicked us off one by one until until 
none were left but our oldest brother, “Rob,” and myself. He was 
in front, and coming to the conclusion she was not going to be suc¬ 
cessful in getting me off, endeavored to aid her by lying down back¬ 
ward on me, as he had hold of the harness and felt entirely safe. 
I threw my arms around him and we both went off together close 
to the stable, and Miller felt she had Avon a great victory. Father 
came out and gave us a word of admonition about the treatment of 
that mare, as he had been a witness from the front porch of most 
of the transaction. 

We had quite an interesting character in the person of an old 
woman by the name of Seals, who resided for long years in one of 
our tenant houses. She was a firm believer in ghosts, apparitions, 
forewarnings and fortune telling. Whenever she desired informa¬ 
tion on any matter she could not work out herself, she visited a 


106 Some Farm Scraps. 

noted fortune teller in Bellaire. She had as implicit confidence in 
the ability of this diviner of hidden mysteries as one could have 
in anything, and it was really remarkable what information she re¬ 
ceived, or claimed to have received, from her on hidden matters. 
She was at our house quite frequently and received many a bounti¬ 
ful supply from it, for which she was ever grateful. She owned a 
dog named “Turk/’ a very sly one, which we long suspected of kill¬ 
ing our sheep. One day brothers Wilson and Watson, who were 
twins, caught him in the very act. They killed and buried him, 
but said nothing to a living soul, not wishing to hurt Mrs. Seals’ 
feelings. She made a search and inquiry everywhere, and among 
others, of our two brothers, who, of course, had not seen “Turk.” 
They seemed to take a great interest in aiding her to discover what 
had become of him, and suggested from time to time many expedi¬ 
ents. She finally said she had exhausted all other resources, and 
would go to the fortune teller. 

Some six months after Turk’s death, when Mrs. Seals 
was making one of her tri-weekly visits to our home, Wat¬ 
son in a sympathetic strain, asked her if she ever heard 
anything of “Turk.” “Yes, I have heard all about him,” she said, 
calmly and confidently. “Indeed,” said Watson, quite interestedly, 
“and what became of him?” “You and your brother Wilson killed 
and buried him,” she said quietly and deliberately. This complete¬ 
ly upset my brother with laughter, who said, “How in the world 
did you get that idea into your head?” “Oh, the fortune teller told 
me all about it. She told me how he was killed; that it was done 
by two fair-haired twin brothers, sons of a neighbor of mine, and 
you are the only twins in this whole section. She told me how you 
had buried him and covered the grave with logs and brush, but I 
never went to find the grave.” This was exactly true. 

There is another incident connected with this same fortune 
teller which I never could quite fathom. Mrs. Seals’ eldest son, 
William, served with me in Co. K, 15th Ohio Volunteers. At the 
battle of Pittsburg Landing, or Shiloh, he was particularly brave 
and conspicuous. He was a little sick when he went into the fight, 
and after it was over it was discovered he was out of his mind with 
typhoid fever. He was placed in one of our transport boats, and 
we never saw him afterward. We continued to try to ascertain 
what had become of him after the war, but for some time without 


Bonnie Belmont. 


107 


success. One day Mrs. Seals stepped into my law office and said 
she had learned what had become of her son William; that he was 
buried in the soldiers’ cemetery at St. Louis, Mo. I found she had 
gotten this information from the fortune teller, and told her she 
could place no reliability in it, but that the matter could be readily 
ascertained from the hospital records there. This was done, and 
found to be absolutely true, and his grave pointed out. 

Many and varied were the tricks we perpetrated upon each 
other on the farm. I think they added a spice to the otherwise 
monotonous life. One notable instance I remember. I had early, 
through a spirit of frugality taught me by our ever economic 
mother, become the possessor of a wooden money box, or bank, pre¬ 
sented me by our uncle, Alexander. It had a thin slot cut in the 
side in such a perpendicular manner that after a coin was once 
placed inside, it could not get out again by the most vigorous shak¬ 
ing with this slot turned downward or in any position. For a num¬ 
ber of years I was sticking this box at every one for a contribution, 
and adding to it on every available occasion while a boy. 1 at 
length determined to open it on a certain day, and made the an¬ 
nouncement to my brothers. They gathered around me in the 
front yard, all jumping about in great glee, and shouting, “Oh, 
John is going to open his box! open his box! open his box!” etc. It 
struck me they were exhibiting too much interest for everything 
to be right. I found in that box one dollar and forty cents, all 
in large sized old-fashioned copper cents. Of course the joke was 
on me, and my discomfiture was complete. It broke my penurious 
heart, and I cried. I went to mother with it. She laid the matter 
before father wnen he came home that night, and on the next morn¬ 
ing he quietly said to me, “Your mother has told me concerning 
your bank box. Just let that matter rest quietly a few days and 
] ’ll make it all right.” One Monday morning soon thereafter he 
announced to all of us, “I have given John that ten-acre field over 
there to put in corn this season, and he is to get half that is raised 
on it as his own, while I get the other half, and you are all to help 
him cultivate and raise the crop in order to pay him back the con¬ 
tents of the money box.” It was really laughable to see the winks 
pass between them and observe the blank stare I received from 
each, done in a way to bore and annoy me, in which I think they 
in a measure succeeded. The fact is, a combination of a crowd 


io8 


Some Farm Scraps. 


against one will always be a success when a joke is being perpe¬ 
trated. We attended that crop, and I received more than my 
money back, but I doubt if I could have been prevailed upon to 
raise another such. I did the plowing of it, while my brothers did 
the hoeing. Every time I would pass one or all of them, they 
would raise the cry, “Oh, working for John!” “Saving for John!” 
And so the fun was carried on at my expense until that crop was 
raised and garnered. 

By inserting a thin piece of tin into the box through the slot, 
holding the box sideways and giving it a shake, the coins would 
slide down the tin on the outside. In order to make the box ap¬ 
pear heavy, all the old large coppers were returned. The whole 
thing was done more out of a spirit for fun than otherwise, for we 
were always scrupulously honest with each other, always liberal 
and willing to divide the last cent, and I do not doubt they would 
have amply remunerated me by contribution. Indeed they were 
beginning to devise a means to this end, when father made his an¬ 
nouncement. I realized one hundred and thirty dollars out of that 
corn, when I do not think I ever had over a sixth of it in the money 
box. The truth is, I had made myself quite a nuisance to them in 
begging continuously, and they had frequently contributed to me 
liberally in dimes, quarters and half dollars, but most of these 
they had taken from my box to see me return them to the box as a 
gratifying new contribution. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


109 


Halloween. 

H ALLOWE’EN, or the evening before “All Saints Day,” in a 
Scotch neighborhood such as ours, was an eventful oc¬ 
casion to the young people. On that night many an at¬ 
tempt was made to fathom the mysteries of conjugal and domestic 
futurity. It was a night full of charms and spells and big with 
prophecy. It was the one night of all others of the year when 
witches, devils, ghosts, fairies, warlocks, apparitions, enchantments, 
elf-candles, and mischief-making beings and spirits were supposed 
to hold high carnival, and through converse with which the young 
people sought to solve their future destinies. This desire for pry¬ 
ing into the future is a striking and besetting passion of the whole 
human family. The pulling of the kale stock was one of the most 
popular. Hand in hand, with eyes bandaged or closed, the testing 
parties must go out in the darkness to the kale, or cabbage patch, 
and pull the first stock they encounter. As it is straight or crooked, 
large or small, so will be the appearance and character of the fu¬ 
ture lord or spouse. If dirt adhered to the root, it meant a for¬ 
tune. If none, it presaged poverty. As the heart of the stock was 
sweet or bitter, so the disposition of the future husband or wife. 
The stocks, or portions of them, were placed over the front door, 
and the Christian name of the prospective husband or wife deter¬ 
mined by the first parties who chanced unwittingly to pass under 
them, in the order placed. 

Another frequent and popular mode, was by placing two chest¬ 
nuts in the fire together, naming one for a lady and one for a gentle¬ 
man. If they died together it was indicative of a peaceful, happy 
married life. If one popped from the ashes, it indicated the court¬ 
ship would be broken off. The pop-corn contest was of the same 
nature. Two grains of corn were similarly named and placed on a 
shovel held over the fire, the result being determined in the same 
way. Sometimes but one grain named after a particular lad or lass, 
was placed on the shovel, and the direction it took in popping indi¬ 
cated the future wife or husband. 


no 


Hallowe'en. 


Sowing of the hemp was another test. By passing out unob¬ 
served you sow hemp seed, and while doing so, you repeat, “Hemp- 
seed I sow thee, my lover come after and pull thee,” and by looking 
over your left shoulder in the dark you will observe the appearance 
of the one destined to be your future husband or wife, in the atti¬ 
tude of pulling hemp. 

The flailing was another means. Going to the barn alone, both 
doors are opened and flail in hand you begin flailing, as though in 
the act of flailing out wheat, which must be repeated three times. 
The third time the apparition or appearance of your lover will pass 
through the barn from the windy side, out at the other door. 

By stealing unnoticed to the bean or oats stack, and measuring 
it three times round with your arms in the dark, at the last meas¬ 
ure you will clasp in your arms the appearance of your future hus¬ 
band or wife. 

Another test was by taking three dishes, one empty, one with 
clean and the other with foul water in it. The person testing is 
led blindfolded to these, and if he or she dips a finger of the left 
hand into the clear water the future companion will be a single per¬ 
son ; if in the foul water, a widow or widower, and if in the empty dish, 
there will be no marriage at all. By writing your name on a piece 
of pasteboard and placing same unobserved against the foot of the 
door, the first person turning it over by entering the room would 
be your future companion in life. 

On one of these hallowe’en occasions some of our merry¬ 
making friends by proxies placed Minerva and Jack on the shovel. 
Minerva left him, going in the direction of one of our brightest 
male associates. This was the result on three trials, bringing 
peels of laughter from the company, to Jack’s great discomfiture. 
They then tried the chestnut roasting, in which Jack was again the 
roasted party, for Minerva again left him. It greatly depressed 
Jack for the evening. This was noticed by Minerva, and on their 
road home she asked him if he was superstitious and believed in 
these bogies. “I regard them as the sheerest nonsense in the 
world, Minerva,” he said, “but somehow of this evening, coupled 
with my misgivings heretofore concerning the ultimate result of my 
deep affection for you, have filled me with an inexpressable fore¬ 
boding which I cannot shake off. It is not the first time I have 
been visited by this silent monitor. You know, you have never 


Bonnie Belmont. 


hi. 


told me how I stand in your affections. You have only promised 
to tell me when we arrive at our majority. Is it anything but reas¬ 
onable I should feel this way?” She grasped his arm more confid¬ 
ingly, and looking into his eyes with a light laugh, she said, “Oh, 
fie! You are taking life too seriously. You must cheer up. Life 
has too many sad things in it to begin grieving over them so young. 
You will be an old man, a misanthrope, if you please, before you are 
twenty-one, if I do not succeed in getting you out of this sober 
mood. Here, I wish to see you always cheerful, and you are 
as sad, solemn and protentious as Poe’s raven. If you continue 
to grow so, I shall have to refuse you when the time comes. Then 
there is no reason for your forebodings. You cannot point to a 
single instance in which I have not treated you with most marked 
consideration. This has been noticed by others, and yet I have 
paid no attention to it. Are you less observant and more stupid 
than they? I will not believe you are. I think you are only trying 
to draw me out. Now, I want you to make me a promise you will 
throw this off and be more cheerful in the future. Will you grant 
it?” Jack promised her, and after a long and confiding talk he took 
his way home. On the way he heard the hilarious noise and con¬ 
fusion of a hallowe’en party in the distance, and he thought of his 
promise. 

After such charms and sports as these were ended at some 
house where a company had gathered to spend Hallowe’en, and 
the young men had escorted the young ladies home, the former, or 
many of them, by pre-arrangement, met at some designated spot to 
play tricks upon the adjacent neighbors. There were few over¬ 
looked in these wild escapades, the boys most usually helping in 
depredations on their own father’s farms, in order to prevent sus¬ 
picion. One of these ended in a bitter and closely contested fist 
fight in which the parties guilty of causing it, were never dis¬ 
covered. 

Our eldest brother Robert, our cousin, Robert Crowner, West- 
ley or Reuben Ashton, I have now forgotten, Ezekiel Weeks, and 
some others, all of whom were recognized as our polite and exem¬ 
plary young men, concluded to try their hands at hallowe’ening. 
After turning our own farm topsy-turvy, they went to the residence 
of Ezekiel Weeks, cousin of Weeks above named, and among other 
things, by means of a ladder, dropped large heads of cabbage down 


112 


Hallowe'en. 


the big open chimney into the wood fire, knocking the hot coals out 
into the room and nearly setting fire to the house. From there they 
passed on to other places. At the stable of Joseph McKim they 
placed upon the side of his lean and half-starved horses the label, 
“Corn for Sale.” They lifted a yearling calf into the hay mow and 
fastened it there. The stable door they placed on top of a hay 
stack. They then threw cabbage and turnips against the door, and 
taking the front gate, carried to to a neighbor, Mr. Bailey, and 
placed it on the roof of his one-story dwelling. In the noise the old 
man Bailey was awakened, and came to the door to give them a 
lecture. Of course he could not see who they were. In 
order to drown his voice one of them blew a horn. At 
this juncture they heard some one upon the side of the hill 
in the direction of the tavern, say, “Boys, drop everything and run. 
It is a lot of hallowe’eners down there at the house, and we’ll catch 
them.” It proved to be David Bailey, John Coss and Adam Clark, 
brother-in-law of David Bailey, who were returning home after a 
night of it at the tavern. They were powerful and bad men in a 
fight, and they were of the rougher element in the neighborhood. 
The Hallowe’eners, hearing them coming, ran a short distance from 
the house and hid in the bushes. When David Bailey and his com¬ 
panions were informed by his father the direction the disturbers had 
taken, they immediately concluded it was the Henderson boys, 
some half mile further up Buckeye Run, and as they were heredi¬ 
tary enemies, determined to follow them up and chastise them. 
They went to the Henderson house, but found no one there but old 
Mrs. Henderson. They concluded they had gone to the tavern, 
and that they would follow them there, so after destroying their 
pumpkin and watermelon patch, they started up the hill to the tav¬ 
ern. Two of the Henderson boys, utterly unaware of what had 
transpired, were coming home from Bridgeport, and they met half 
way up the hill. Then and there took place a battle royal. The 
Henderson boys ultimately whipped all three of them badly, for 
they were the scienced fighters of the neighborhood. It proved to 
bp a salutary and instructive lesson to the Hallowe’eners. Ezekiel 
Weeks, whom they had Hallowe’ened, and who liked a joke, seemed 
to have discovered them and kept them in great fear for years, 
threatening to tell the other parties, and so have them get a “lick¬ 
ing,” as he termed it, from both sides. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


ii3 


Maple Sugar Making. 

f 

M APLE sugar making was turned to account by way of ro¬ 
mance, though it was not without its hard labor at times. 
When the weather was not too cool, a sugar making 
party would be formed at which the young people, on a moonlight 
night, would participate in making sugar and having a moonlight 
and firelight social in the maple groves, in which the country 
abounded. 

The maple trees were “tapped” with auger holes, in which 
were inserted alder spiles with the pith punched out, and these 
conductd the sap a sufficient distance from the trees to enable it to 
drop into the wooden troughs underneath. These troughs were 
about three feet long, usually made of walnut, hollowed out by the 
woodman’s ax, and would hold about two gallons. The sap was 
carried in buckets from these troughs to the barrels kept for that 
purpose at the boiling place, or fire. These fires were ordinarily 
constructed by rolling two logs about ten feet long near each other 
and building a fire between with smaller wood. At each end of 
this fire a fork of timber was driven or placed in the ground, each 
well braced, and a long strong pole placed in these forks extending 
lengthwise of the middle of the fire and a sufficient distance above 
not to burn. On this pole from one to three large iron kettles were 
hung in which the maple sap was boiled down to the consistency of 
molasses, or sugar, as desired. One kettle was called the boiling- 
down kettle, the reduced sap from the others being poured into it, 
and no fresh sap allowed in it. This facilitated the production of 
the molasses, or sugar, and made it finer. 

Little work was done by those attending these sugar-making 
parties, and that chiefly by the hired help. They sometimes lasted 
until one or two o’clock at night. The young folks ordinarily em¬ 
ployed at the time sitting apart in couples on logs and rude seats in 
the moonlight in the vicinity of the fire, talking love and romance 
mostly. The young folks from the town were always anxious and 
glad to attend these sugar-makings. They were really romantic 


Maple Sugar Making. 


114 

and very reviving in the genial springtime, after the long, monoton¬ 
ous winter. Sometimes, under the sweet strains of the violin, a 
Virginia reel or old-fashioned French four dance would be indulged 
in by the lights of the moon, fire and torch. 

As Jack sat apart with Minerva watching one of these dances at 
the sugar camp on the Chandler farm one night, he asked if it did 
not remind her of Burns’ witches in their dance at Alloway’s 
haunted kirk on the occasion of Tam O'Shanter’s memorable ride. 
“I was just thinking of that,” she said. “And do you know, when 
I reflect on the lives of the savages, spent in these woods, I do not 
wonder they were superstitious. There seems to be a wierdness 
in the solitude of these woods and the whisperings of the leaves 
that teach it. Listen to that whip-poor-will, and now, the porten¬ 
tous warnings of that great owl. When I hear these sounds, 
1 think of the savages who once peopled these woods, think of our¬ 
selves sitting here and looking on that gay circle dancing there with 
the violinist in the background, I wonder if we are each and all a 
component part in the inscrutable wisdom of an all-wise Creator in 
working to a nobler and higher attainment and ultimate heavenly 
perfection. I want to believe in God and a future state. I do be¬ 
lieve in it. But I confess I am not without my doubts. I drive 
these away as quickly as they come, for I do want to live forever 
hereafter with those I love. Are you ever beset by such fears?” 
she said. He replied, “Minerva, I want to believe as you do. I 
have been raised that way, but like you, I have had my doubts. I 
can see why these surroundings tonight have suggested your line 
of thought. You have been thinking that the moaning of the winds 
among the forests, the whisperings of the leaves, and the voices of 
wild animals and birds first filled our savage ancestors with fear; 
that fear begat superstition which caused them to cower before an 
imagined unseen power, or spirit, and ultimately to placate the 
wrath of this spirit, the fear of the heart suggested worship, and 
the belief in God. This has been my line of thought; and 
I confess when I look around me and see the misery of mortals, the 
inequalities of life, so much squalor, starvation, and death from 
want, right alongside of multiplied millions, luxury and lavish 
wealth, at the lack of brotherly love in all the human and animal 
kingdom, some struggling for mere life and existence, while others 
are trying to rob them of that existence in order to increase their 


Bonnie Belmont. 


ii 5 

ill-gotten gains; when I reflect on the sufferings of four million 
slaves right here in our own free America, toiling under the lash 
in the most debased and servile manner, human souls bought and 
sold, I confess I am not without my misgivings as to the existence 
of an all-powerful and just God. I wonder if there be such, why 
He does not rectify all this. But then I reflect, why do we believe 
in a future state? Aside from a belief in God, why and where did 
we get that idea? Why believe in and long for immortality? This 
question of the soul, this belief, evidently came from some source.” 
“And how do you answer it,” she said, looking earnestly into his 
eyes, with a deep interest and anxious meaning. “To answer you, 
1 have sometimes thought, in order to reconcile these sufferings and 
inequalities with justice, that the doctrine of the early sages, that 
all matter, animal, vegetable and mineral, the worlds, everything, 
are component parts of God, all struggling up to greater refinement 
and higher perfection, which we call perfect happiness and immor¬ 
tality. That God suffers as we suffer, and that for the time being 
He cannot prevent it, nor can we. Then again I reflect, this does 
not seem human. The idea of associating clay, matter and spirit in 
this way does not partake of the attributes of a future state of soul 
communion, as suggested to us by some unseen unexplained agency. 
This natural hope and belief of immortality which seems to be born 
in us and comes unbidden as a desire, a hope, a firm belief.” “But 
such spontaneous or inbred belief must necessarily pre-suppose a 
great first cause, a God of wisdom, and consequently of justice, 
then how do you reconcile all this inequality, this suffering, with 
that justice?” she said. “I know of no other theory than that 
adopted by the Christians, namely, that there is an inscrutable wis¬ 
dom in God’s providence which He has determined best not to 
reveal to mortals for the present, and that some day all will rejoice 
in the righteousness of it,” Jack replied. 

“But do you believe in the immortality of the soul—of a life 
beyond where we shall meet again?” said Minerva. “I will answer 
your question in the delightful and re-assuring language of George 
D. Prentice, asking that you allow me to make the application in 
your own case and mine,” he rejoined. 

“Generations of men appear and vanish as the grass, and the 
countless multitude that throngs the world today, will tomorrow 
disappear as the footsteps on the shore. In the beautiful drama of 


n6 


Maple Sugar Making. 


Ion, the instinct of immortality, so eloquently uttered by the death 
devoted Greek, finds a deep response in every thoughtful soul. 
When about to yield his young existence as a sacrifice to fate, his 
beloved Clemanthe asks if they shall not meet again, to which he 
replies: 'I have asked that dreadful question of the hills that look 
eternal—of the streams that flow forever—of the stars among 
whose fields of azure my raised spirit hath waked in glory. All 
were dumb. But while I gaze upon thy face, I feel that there is 
something in the love that mantles through its beauty that cannot 
wholly perish. We shall meet again, Clemanthe.’ ” 

Taking his arm, they, with the remainder of the company, took 
their departure from the sugar camp. This sugar-making party 
was a pleasant occasion, and after the company had repaired to the 
Chandler mansion and partaken of the apples, cider and other re¬ 
freshments, they took their stroll homeward by way of the tavern. 
In passing over the rise of the hill east of the tavern, Minerva and 
Jack exchanged their usual handkerchief farewell salutations. 



Bonnie Belmont. 


ii 7 


The Husking Bee. 

C ORN huskings were notable social events on the farm. 

These were occasions when the old and young both par¬ 
ticipated, and marked the winding up, to a large extent, of 
the fall work. The social cheer at these gatherings took on a more 
animated spirit than possibly any other occasion. The drudgery 
of the summer and fall work being over, apparently brought a relief 
which sought expression in cheerfulness. 

All classes seemed to appreciate it alike, and this sentiment 
ordinarily ultimated in a jovial old-fashioned “husking bee,” in 
which the whole neighborhood participated, more or less, in the 
earlier settlements. Later on they became more elect, and none 
came who was not invited. Many of these “husking bees” were 
made more pleasant, and at the same time more profitable, by the 
good dames having a “quilting party” on the same day. The elder¬ 
ly ladies would come in the morning, quilting all day, when those 
who could not remain would repair to their homes. In the evening 
the young ladies would arrive to assist in preparing and serving the 
meal after the husking bee was over, usually about ten o’clock at 
night, and be in at the “jumping of the cat.” The gentlemen, old 
and young, did not arrive until after supper at six o’clock in the 
evening, and at once repaired to the corn pile or field. Near the 
close of the husking the young ladies came to the corn pile to try 
their luck at the red ear, and the forfeit paid. 

You will no doubt remember the “corn husking” and “quilting 
party” held at our farm. We had gathered the corn from the field 
by pulling the ears, husk and all, from the stalks, hauling them to 
the sixteen-acre field near the barn and piling them in a long rick, 
or pile, of even proportions throughout its whole length. This rick 
was separated into two equal parts by making a gap midway of it. 
The huskers being on the ground, selected two men as captains. 
These drew cuts or cast lots, for the first choice of huskers. 
After all those present were selected by alternate choosing, the cap¬ 
tains again cast lots for choice of piles. Any husker coming after 


n8 


The Husking Bee. 


the contest had begun, took his place on the side having the next 
choice. The owner of the corn was made the judge of cleanness or 
uncleanness of the husking. The side first getting through was 
declared the winner, providing their corn was properly husked. 
After helping the other side finish, then all kinds of sports and trials 
of strength and skill were in order for a half hour or more in the 
open moonlight, before retiring to the house. 

First, the two captains were to try their skill in a three-fall 
wrestle, in full view of the huskers. Each captain had the privilege 
of refusing by furnishing a substitute from his side. In this way 
the best wrestlers on the ground were generally pitted against each 
other, and very frequently the best wrestlers were the first choice 
of huskers, so that if beaten at the husking they could redeem their 
prestige by being victorious at the wrestling. A victory at the 
wrestling was supposed to offset one at the husking. After these 
two tests the field was open for general, all-round individual tests, 
at jumping, hopping, wrestling, shouldering, lifting, hand-spring¬ 
ing, throwing the shoulder stone, sledge and numerous other tests, 
such as “dog wrestling” and weighing the broom handle. In “dog 
wrestling,” the two contestants lie down on theii backs, side by 
side on the ground with their feet in different directions and elbows 
next to each other interlocked. They then raise the foot nearest 
each opponent to a perpendicular position, so as to quickly interlock 
their heels and cause one or the other to “skin the cat” by pulling 
him suddenly over on his face, with his head and feet in the same 
direction as the victor’s. This is quite a laughable and surprising 
wrestle. In “weighing the broom handle,” two parties sit down on 
the floor with legs extended and the bottoms of their feet touching. 
A broom handle is held in the center above their toes, and each 
party takes hold. At a given signal, each tries his strength in try¬ 
ing to pull the other up from the floor. This was more a matter of 
avoirdupois than real strength, although it was not entirely without 
its point of skill and quickness of action. 

Aunt Tilda was the sunshine of the evening, and brought 
.mirth and enjoyment whenever she was waiting on the table. On 
repairing to the house, the whole company enjoyed a delightful sup¬ 
per of all that the farm could afford, prepared and served by the 
hands of fair young beauties and amiable dames. Oh, the guileless, 
honest joy of those old-fashioned suppers! How, amid the musty 


Bonnie Belmont. 


119 

books of the law, and the intricate questions and hard toil of the 
court room, my mind reverts to the work on the farm and the dear 
old corn huskings. How amid the stilted etiquette of the aristo¬ 
cratic dinner parties and the high-toned revelry of the fashionable 
banquet hall, has my memory passed back to that well-filled table 
and honest, happy faces in the old farm house! The faces of father, 
mother, sisters, brothers, friends and loved ones. They pass be¬ 
fore me now in glad review, as animated and joyous as when I saw 
them at that supper table fifty years ago; and the distance of years 
between but adds a lustre to each countenance and a halo to each 
brow. 

“How brightly through the mist of years 
My quiet country home appears!” 

But they are all gone—all gone—leaving nothing but their 
memories. 

“And now, far removed from the loved habitation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively swell.” 

When supper was over, the first sport of the evening was the 
“jumping of the cat.” The house cat was carefully wrapped in the 
new quilt—the production of the quilting party—the young people, 
ladies and gentlemen in couples, were arranged in a hollow square. 
A couple from each side of the square stepped to the center, grasped 
each side of the quilt and running backward to their positions in 
the line, opened the quilt with the bewildered cat brought suddenly 
to view in the center. The couple in the direction which the cat 
jumped, were certain to be those who would first marry. This 
would be repeated three times so as to known to an absolute cer¬ 
tainty the next three weddings in their proper order, occurring in 
the neighborhood. 

In the earlier days the plays indulged in at these gatherings 
were quite primitive. The play of “King William” was one of 
these. A lady and gentleman arm in arm started promenading 
round the room, singing: 

“King William was King James’ son, 

And from that noble race he sprung, 

And on his breast he wore a star 


120 


The Husking Bee. 


’Twas called the royal point of war. 

Go choose your east, go choose your west, 

Go choose the one whom you love best, 

If she’s not here to take your part, 

Go choose the next one to your heart.” 

At this point another gentleman selected a lady partner, follow-* 
ing in the train of the others. This was repeated until all the com¬ 
pany had been added as promenaders, when one-half of them in 
couples arranged in two lines fronting each other down the room, 
and with arms interlocked along each line and reaching across, the 
hands of one line grasping those of the other, a contest took place 
as to which side could pull the other to its side of the room. These 
sports gave way to enjoyments of a more literary nature, as the 
settlement became more advanced and many of our young people 
were being educated in eastern colleges. 

On the occasion of the husking bee, with the aid of the piano 
and violins, some fine solos and quartets were well rendered and 
highly enjoyed. These were followed by readings in poetry and 
prose, and a production or two in elocution. I took no part in these, 
as my duties that evening in entertaining were too multiplied. 
Minerva was a fine reader, and on this occasion she gratified the 
desire and call of the company by rendering “Gray’s Elegy,” in an 
instructive and impressive manner. 

Our brother Robert and sister Lucelia, who were then home 
on vacation from college, also took part. Poor, tender-hearted Lu¬ 
celia! She faded and died in the beautiful Shenadoah Valley when 
the flower of life was scarce entering the full bloom. And noble 
hearted, dear old “Rob” now peacefully sleeps under the little hil¬ 
lock in the delightful cemetery which kisses the lake at Toledo, the 
waves of which will forever sing his sweet lullaby. "Rob” was a 
noble fellow, and few there were who did not love him. He was 
the soul of every company and full of literary tastes and attain¬ 
ments. On the evening in question he gave a fine elocutionary 
reading, as he had been a pupil under Professor Kid, and was a fine 
reader. In later years he became noted the whole country over for 
his happy, eloquent Grand Army speeches and after-dinner talks. 
In this he had few, if any, equals. He was cut off in the prime of 
life and in the full power of his manhood. 



Judge Robert H. Cochran 







Bonnie Belmont. 


121 


Jack took occasion to request Minerva to remain until the main 
portion of the guests had left, as his studies required his pres¬ 
ence, to which she gladly consented, my friend Charlie Chand¬ 
ler and his lady companion also remaining, as they all went 
the same road. “I desire to congratulate you on the good 
judgment of your selection and the fine rendition of it this 
evening, Minerva. I think to a farmer, Gray’s Elegy is cer¬ 
tainly the finest thing in literature,” Jack said. “I have always 
admired it as a production of great harmony and beauty,” she re¬ 
plied, “and do you know I am impressed he must have written it in 
the Fall. It seems to harmonize so much with the dreamy, retro¬ 
spective feelings which come over us at that season.” “Yes, the 
low, soft harmony of it seems to partake of that peaceful, reflective 
season and has a weird enchantment about it truly captivating. By 
the way, do you remember the date of his demise?” Jack inquired. 
“He died in 1771, at the early age of fifty-five, I believe. I regard 
his ‘Spring’ as very reflective and elegant.” “Yes,” Jack rejoined, 
“there seems to be a touching, tender chord in his minstrel harp 
sounded by few. His ode ‘On a Distant Prospect of Eton College’ 
is quite impressive.” “Quite true,” she replied, “but there is a vein 
about it I do not entirely admire. It sounds too foreboding. And 
really, I sometimes think his whole works are too much tinged with 
it. I am almost persuaded he must have had a sad life from some 
cause.” “I have had it impressed upon me from some source,” Jack 
replied, “that he was crossed and disappointed in his first love.” 
“Do you think it would have that result, even if such were the 
case?” she queried. “It would at least bring a depressed feeling 
which could well, if not naturally, find expression in such effusions,” 
Jack rejoined. “Possibly this is so,” she said, “but I think were I 
a man, I would take more genuine enjoyment in philanthropic, 
literary, scientific and governmental pursuits, and not throw away 
my genius, as many do, in paying such devoted court to the fickle 
blandishments of women.” “You seem displeased with your sex, 
Minerva. I trust you are not an enemy of it?” “Not at all! On 
the contrary I stoutly defend it. But I see so much hollowness in 
the flattering etiquette of my sex; so much duplicity.” “But do you 
likewise see it in the other sex?” “I think I am prepared to say 
from my own observation only, that I do not, certainly not to such 
a great extent. But even if this be the case, why do men throw 


122 


The Husking Bee. 


away so much of their precious time and talent in paying court to 
vain women, when such opportunity for greatness is before them? 
It seems to me they display a weakness unpardonable,’’ she rejoined. 

“However unpardonable, I shall still have to beg your pardon, in 
quoting my favorite author.” 

“Before ye gie poor Frailty names, 

Suppose a change o’ cases.” 

“I dare say you do not know, never having been a man, how 
largely the love and admiration of women have entered into the am¬ 
bitions and achievements of men. They have largely been the 
mainspring of all noble aims and hopes and much happiness. At 
the same time this love has been the source of much sorrow, but in 
this case it has been perverted. A truly noble man should have 
an exalted opinion of women. Maternal affection should teach him 
this, if nothing else. But aside from this, there is something im¬ 
planted in man’s nature, something he cannot control, and probably 
would not if he could, which causes him to turn with love for, and 
love of approbation from, his companions to the fair sex. It has 
been so since Adam. It will be so through all time, and possibly 
afterward. Imagine what man would do or be in this world with¬ 
out women. What kind of a world would it be? I imagine one 
would feel quite as deserted, forlorn and miserable as Campbell’s 
‘Last Man/ and the world an aimless rabble.” “I think,” said she, 
“you have taken me entirely too broadly. I should be very sorry 
if my words implied extinction of women, for I have an idea I 
would not be an altogether disinterested party in that philanthropic 
or economic dispensation of affairs. You will observe I used the 
terms ‘vain women/ not all women, and I did not contemplate the 
extermination of even these. My complaint was against the time 
lost on them by men of known and acknowledged genius. I am 
persuaded also, that much time and talent are mis-spent in litera- 
ure, art and war, on love and the conjugal affections, which might 
be used in pursuits of more material interest to the human family. 
Suppose for illustration, the labor, talent and money, foolishly ex¬ 
pended in these, should have been directed toward bettering econ¬ 
omic conditions and cultivating brotherly love and the extinction of 
war. It is hard telling where the human family would have been 
today under such conditions.” 


Bonnie Belmont. 


123 


“I beg your pardon, Minerva, for my misconstruction. I thought 
you could certainly have no objection to true love, from a true man 
to a noble woman—one without vanity. Then may I be permitted 
to infer, you have not the slightest objection to me loving you, oh, 
ever so much, but on the contrary, you are deeply gratified and re¬ 
ciprocate it?” “There now,” she rejoined, “you are abandoning the 
broad field of generalization and making your application entirely 
too special. A moment ago it was the whole world. Now it is 
you and I. You will therefore pardon me, if at this juncture I with¬ 
draw my pleadings and abandon the argument.” “Then the de¬ 
fense having withdrawn, I will ask for judgment in my favor,” Jack 
replied. “The court does not know herself, and is not ready to 
announce a decision tonight, so we will call the next case,” she said 
laughingly, “so what is it?” “I trust there are no other cases being 
plead before you and hope there will not be until mine is fully de¬ 
cided,” Jack replied. “Pretty well turned,” she rejoined, laugh¬ 
ingly, “and now, let me presumptuously ask a favor of you. This is 
Saturday night. This coming week I am to make a visit to my sis¬ 
ter in Jobetown, and on next Sabbath I desire to go to the Yearly 
Meeting of the ‘Friends’ in Mt. Pleasant. Will you come to my sis¬ 
ter’s with your buggy and take me?” “Most gladly,” Jack rejoined. 
“I shall regard it as a most gratifying pleasure, and beside, we have 
had but few buggy rides this beautiful fall, anyway.” 

“Please permit me to present you with this volume of Camp¬ 
bell’s Poems, ordered for you, and possibly in our next discussion 
we shall pass him in review,” said Jack. She seemed deeply grati¬ 
fied and a look of appreciative tenderness greeted him. They stood 
at the gate talking interestedly until his friend Charlie arrived on his 
road home, after having accompanied his fair companion to her resi¬ 
dence at the old Weeks mansion by the cemetery. After a few 
pleasantries, with a warm pressure of the hand, they parted, Jack 
and Charlie taking their way to the Chandler mansion, where Jack 
expected to spend Sabbath. 

On their way across the field they sat on the stile a few min¬ 
utes to take in the beautiful surroundings and enchanting moonlight. 
“Jack,” said Charlie, as he removed his hat to catch the genial, soft 
autumn breeze. “I have long suspected that you and Minerva love 
each other. I do not wish to intrude on so sacred a domain, and 
probably it is indelicate and obtrusive to mention it; but you know 


124 


The Husking Bee. 


you and I have so long been such good friends I felt it would be 
pardonable to say, that as such friend, I sincerely hope I am cor¬ 
rect in my conjectures, and if it be true it fills me with gratification. 
1 know of no nobler, better fellow than you, and if I were going to 
select a lover or wife for you, Minerva would be the one above all 
others on this earth. She is splendidly noble and so intellectual. 
Do you know, all the young men here and in town are dead in love 
with her, and say she pays no attention to anyone when you are 
around?” “Charlie,” said Jack, “there is nothing hidden between 
you and me, never has been, excepting this one matter, and I am 
free to make confession to you now on this, so far as my own feel¬ 
ings go. I do love Minerva, and have since I was a child; but I 
say to you now, this is as far as I can go, for to this hour I do not 
know she loves me. She has never told me so.” He looked aston¬ 
ished, and Jack then related to him his declaration of love, Minerva’s 
postponed reply to it, and in fact all his hopes and fears. “She is 
exactly right, sir, the good, sensible girl she always was, even in 
her love affairs,” he said, “and now my dear good fellow, I want 
you to throw those doubts of her love to the wind. I have seen you 
were under a cloud of mental depression for some time. I half db 
vined the cause of it, and hence my inquiry a few minutes since. 
Now, let me tell you, and let this settle it, so far as your ease of 
mind is concerned, once for all. Minerva loves you with her whole 
heart. There is no mistaking that. The trouble is, she is too 
young and bashful to acknowledge it, and you are too young and 
fearful to see it. Rather, I might say, you are so fearful she won’t 
love you, that you begin to feel she does not.” “You have ex¬ 
pressed my fears and feelings correctly, Charlie, but I think you 
are mistaken as to the motive which keeps her acknowledgment 
back if she indeed loves me. It is not because she is too young 
and bashful, as you express it, but from a loftier and more prac¬ 
tically correct one. She knows we are both young, and that more 
mature age and judgment may change me or both,” Jack said. “I 
think you are correct, Jack,” he replied, after a moment’s reflection, 
and I think she delays the reply more through a fear you may 
change your sentiments on this matter than that she will. Now, 
don’t you see the nobility of her soul? She wished to leave you 
free when this time comes.” “Charlie,” he said, “you do not know 
how I thank you for these encouraging words. They come to me 


Bonnie Belmont. 


125 


like a great kindness. I have much confidence in your judgment 
and discrimination, and it has partially removed a great load from 
my heart. But”—and Jack grasped him by the hand—“do you 
really feel you are not mistaken?” “Oh, I know I am not!” he said. 
“Why, do you not know every one says she loves you and you love 
her? No longer than tonight, when Aunt Tilda slyly told her she 
hoped the cat would jump toward her and ‘Massa Jack/ for he was 
the best fellow in the world/ I noticed Minerva blushed deeply 
when she replied, ‘Those things never jump our way, auntie, and 
I’m afraid to try/ After the shaking out of the quilt I heard her 
say, ‘Now, Aunt Tilda, what do you think of that, he never asked 
me to try my luck with the cat/ ‘Never mind, honey, he loves you 
all jist the same, guess he was afraid, like you, ya! ya! ya! ’Fraid 
de cat wouldn’t jump toward you, ya! ya! ya!’ Don’t you know 
how she took your part at the apple paring, and how she has al¬ 
ways done so?” said Charlie. “Yes, but if you had heard how she 
criticised the latitude of my expression as to Burns’ Christianity pri¬ 
vately to me, on our road home, you would not think she was so de¬ 
voted.” “The fact that she defends you in public and criticises you 
in private and to your face, is the strongest proof she does love you. 
Come along now, old fellow, I’ll have it no other way. You and 
Minerva will be married, and I’ll be the best man and dance at your 
wedding.” He ran his arm in Jack’s, and they slowly wended their 
way to Charlie’s home. 


126 


Rob's New Boots. 


Rob’s New Boots. 

O UR brother “Rob” was a born diplomat. He could say “yes” 
with a most captivating cordiality, when he would much 
rather have said “no.” We were taught to treat our 
grandfather with great respect and civility. At one time in his ad¬ 
vanced age, when we were at his residence working corn, he 
brought out a pair of old boots which he had partially worn out 
and which had been hanging in the garret for over fifteen years. 
They were long, square-toed, without any apparent instep, and 
about as shapely as an Ohio River flat boat. Our grandfather at 
the noon hour, suggested these would be excellent for use in plow¬ 
ing corn and work around the farm, and very patronizingly pre¬ 
sented them to brother Rob. The latter observed the many wry 
looks passing between the remainder of us boys, but with a sauvity 
and affusive politeness which would have rivaled Lord Chesterfield 
himself, he accepted the present with most gracious thanks. He 
impressed grandfather with the importance of the gift, and charmed 
him with the gratitude he displayed in its reception. The boots 
were too large for grandfather, and about twice too large for Rob. 
He could jump up and down in them. The remainder of us dare 
not give vent to our bursting mirth, for father was there, and we 
did not desire to break the charm which Rob’s politeness had 
wrought on our grandfather. When we arrived at the corn field 
and away from our two fathers, then the mirth over the boots began 
in most cordial style. It was suggested that three of us wear them 
all at once, one of the three to do the plowing. Rob’s first experi¬ 
ment was, to stand the boots up with their backs to him, and then 
from a distance, take a run and jump, to see if he could not land in 
the boots without touching leather. Crowner suggested there 
might be a dead Indian in them. After side-splitting mirth had 
been indulged in for some time, Rob, who was doing the plowing, 
while we were hoeing, concluded to furnish us an exhi¬ 
bition of their service by plowing one round in the boots. 
It was laughable in the extreme to witness the grotesque figures 


Bonnie Belmont. 


127 


he cut at the handles of the double shovel plow, and the yells of 
mirth which went up from us could have been heard for a mile. 
When he returned he kicked each of the boots at us from his feet to 
see how near he could make a “center shot,” as he expressed it. 
He then took the boots, set them down on a large sand stone under 
the chestnut tree, and with another smaller stone pounded them 
until the uppers were broken loose from the soles. He rubbed them 
all over with clay from the field, and as they were well greased, it 
gave them the appearance of having been worn out from use. The 
fact was they were somewhat rotten anyway. 

When we were at grandfathers for dinner the next day, and 
when he was in a gleeful state of mind, Rob presented the boots, 
exhibited great disappointment at their wearing qualities, and in 
his most polite and afifable manner, asked grandfather if he could 
not supplement them with a new pair which would fit and wear bet¬ 
ter. He made his point, obtained the boots, and the joke was on us. 


128 


The Cider Mill. 


The Cider Mill. 

T HERE were few places on the farm where more genuine fun 
and pleasure was had than around the old cider mill and 
press. To my boyish fancy the two upright wooden cy¬ 
linders with great cogs working into each other, around which the 
capacious hopper was built to receive the apples to be ground, with 
the long sweep attached to the top of one of these cylinders, curving 
down and out, to which the horse was attached for motor power on 
a circular track, was a wonderful and stupendous contrivance. 

How often when a child, when the mill was grinding, have I 
climbed to an altitude sufficient to permit me to look over the edge 
of the hopper, and there view in absorbed wonderment the great 
commotion going on within. Those cylinders were so close to¬ 
gether I wondered how it were possible for the apples to get 
through, even though crushed to a pulp. Sometimes an apple all 
covered with juice would jump back from its contact with the cy¬ 
linders as though a thing of life, and afraid to attempt the ominous 
passage. Others beneath, pressed down by the weight and force 
of those above, were quickly ground to pulp, surrendering up their 
life and liquid sweetness. Alas! how like the life of mortals! 

Occasionally the rich juice from the grinders would squirt in 
my face, and as it trickled down on the lips its taste became a kind¬ 
ness. The grating, rasping, horrible sounds from the ungreased 
journals of the cylinders were veritable charming music to my child¬ 
ish ears, when as a result I beheld with the covetous greed of a 
miser, the sweet amber juice of the fruit flowing into the tub or 
cider barrel beneath. Sometimes when the hopper was too full, 
or the apples pressed between the cylinders with too much force, 
the horse would “stall” and the old mill come to a stop with a loud, 
short, gutteral gasp. Then it would require the combined strength 
of horse and “all hands” to start it again. It was a continuous dead 
pull on the horse, and I wonder he did not stop oftener. I do not 
forget the many times when standing inside the circle of the “horse 
sweep,” it has come round and pulled me over on the ground. The 


Bonnie Belmont. 


129 


first time this happened I took a cry over it, though more from sur¬ 
prise and fright than from injury. It soon became a common thing, 
and as the older ones around laughed at my perplexity, I soon 
learned to join in the levity. The great piles of apples hauled by 
the wagon and cart loads and dumped out into the cider mill was 
likewise a source of youthful wonderment to me. They looked so 
fine then, their beauty attracted me. There were the large, the 
medium and the small apples. The fiery red, the red and white 
striped, the beautiful pink, the rich amber, the golden, the violet, the 
silver, the green the variegated of all shades, not even excluding the 
blue colored. To me the beam of the cider press was most ponder¬ 
ous. I thought it the largest log in the whole world. It was of oak, 
forty feet long, about eighteen inches across, and was in reality a 
very large and heavy beam. One end of it was fastened under a 
cross beam to prevent it from going upward when the other was 
let down. The large pomace crib of the press sat on a water-tight 
platform close to this confined end of the beam. It was a square 
formed of slats about four feet high with spaces between the slats. 
Straw thinly spread transversely inside and across these spaces pre¬ 
vented the pomace from squeezing through, and served as a strainer 
through which the cider percolated in tempting richness. When 
the farther end of this beam was let down its weight produced a 
powerful and continuous pressure, and the amber juice went hurry¬ 
ing down the platform into the cider barrel. You may boast of 
your “mint juleps,” “sherry cocktails,” “champagne” and royal 
wines, but to the boy on the farm good, newly made romanite cider 
sucked through a stray is the nectar of the gods. Think of the 
many squabbles and skirmishes for possession of the ever-liberal 
and glorious bung-hole of the cider barrel. It is remarkable how 
many head can suck from one bung-hole at the same time. The 
number depended frequently on the length of the straws. But as 
long as the straws operated properly it was singular what a peace¬ 
ful brotherhood existed between the bibulous suckers. Then even 
the honey bee and wasp were permitted to join in joyous fellowship 
around the bung-hole, and the swarm of gnats gathered there was 
a mere incident without note. The capacity of a boy’s stomach for 
sweet cider is limitless. It has no conscience or fears of results, and 
expands for the occasion. In ten minutes after sating its inordinate 
thirst for cider it becomes as thirsty and parched as ever. The 


130 


The Cider Mill. 


sight or smell of cider will make any boy thirsty. What a pity, 
when grown to manhood and ripened judgment, we should ever 
desire or touch anything stronger than sweet cider. What a world 
of domestic sorrow would be avoided, and how many more souls 
enter heaven. 

Our neighboring farm boy, “Bill Seals,” once traded a barrel of 
cider for a brass pistol. Bill was hideously homely and looked like 
a prize fighter. He was the only person I was really ever afraid of, 
and I can give no reason why, except that being a much bigger boy 
and so unmercifully ugly, I conceived he was dangerous. He lived 
in an adjoining school district, and our neighbor, E. J. A. Drennen, 
informed me that as the possessor of that brass pistol, Bill became 
the champion of the neighborhood. That he was the admiration, 
and at the same time the envy of every other boy in the school dis¬ 
trict. In fact he was a hero as long as he owned that pistol, and he 
fully realized and gloated in his exalted position. He walked 
around in a kind of swaggering, domineering, exalted triumph with 
all the other boys at his heels as supercilious admirers. His ex¬ 
altation was of short duration. Under the persuasion of the other 
boys he was prevailed upon to shoot the pistol off. He braced him¬ 
self, raised the hammer, turned his head to one side, pointed the pis¬ 
tol toward the ground, and shutting his eyes, heroically pulled the 
trigger. There was an explosion, and the ball passed through the 
skin of Bill’s toe and lodged in the sole of his boot. The hideous 
yells which Bill sent up from that wound and his bad marksmanship 
immediately reduced him to the level of the common herd. Bill 
was again a commoner. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


* 131 


The Horse Race. 

1 HAVE never seen a better or more fearless lady horseback 
rider than our sister Lucelia. When a mere girl on the farm, 
she early adopted the habit of the boys of going to the field, 
and under the seductive influence of a nubbin of corn, selecting from 
the horses in the pasture the one she desired, and without halter, 
bridle or saddle, riding it at a pellmell gallop to the stable, there to 
be fed, curried, saddled and bridled, ready for a horseback ride to 
the city, or over the country. Possibly there is not a boy in our 
whole family who has not had a “neck-and-neck” half-mile dash at 
full speed on horseback with “Sister Celia,” as we called her, in 
which she always managed to hold her own. These races frequent¬ 
ly occurred from the pasture fields to the barn, when a picnic was to 
be attended. 

She was tall, slender, very agile, and absolutely fearless in 
horseback riding. The early fairs on Wheeling Island were held at 
the grounds of the association at the end of the old wooden bridge 
which spanned the back river at Bridgeport. The association as 
one of the drawing features, determined to have a horseback race, 
to be participated in by ladies. Miss Sallie VanPelt, Miss Joseph¬ 
ine Frazier and sister Celia were reckoned the three best riders in 
the neighborhood, and while there were other competitors, as was 
expected, the real contest lay between these three. On the day of 
the race the ladies were placed upon their horses. Before the start 
our sister spurted her horse up the track to test his mettle. She 
quckly returned and jumping from the saddle, said, “Til not ride 
that horse in this race. I know what a horse is, and I am not going 
to ride one which will go to sleep in a competitive race.” “Dr. Up- 
degraflf, will you let me have your horse?” “Most certainly,” re¬ 
plied the gallant doctor, “but our aim is to provide tractable though 
rapid horses, fearing you ladies may not be able to manage them. 
My horse is very high strung and none but men have ever ridden 
him in a race.” “I can ride any horse a man can,” our sister re¬ 
plied, “and if you will let me have him, I will risk the conse- 


132 


The Horse Race. 


quences.” “Then you shall have him,” replied Updegraff, and she 
was soon seated upon the fiery animal, which from the knowledge 
of what was to come, and the pride resulting from the championship 
of many a close contest, was already fretting for the fray and 
champing his bit in anticipation of the start. He really looked 
dangerous. The anxiety of the onlookers was apparent, and the 
misgivings general. The remark was distinctly heard from the 
grandstand, “That horse will kill that woman.” Sister Celia had 
the man at the horse’s head lead him some distance back of the 
other horses from the starting point, as she saw he would make a 
rapid dash when he started, and she hoped to cross the line with the 
others, and so get the race started early, as she saw her efforts to 
manage him would soon exhaust her strength and so cause her to 
lose the race in the final wind-up. Her calculation was good, for 
they all crossed the line well together and it was called a “go.” All 
the riders but sister Celia plied their whips vigorously, Miss Van 
Pelt and Miss Frazier being side by side in the lead, and riding their 
horses magnificently. The race required two circuits of the race 
track. They passed under the wire on the first round with Miss 
VanPelt and Miss Frazier still abreast in the lead, with my sister a 
close third. The two former began playing the whips more vigor¬ 
ously with a view to the final outcome. Up to this time our sister 
had not used the whip. She sat in the saddle like a statue, as 
though she was a part of the horse she rode, and her face was as 
pale as death. Suddenly her cheeks flushed a deep red, she braced 
herself stoutly, and leaning well back in the saddle, with a firm 
rein in one hand, she with the other lashed the withers of her horse 
with a fearful shower of blows from the whip. Everyone could see 
her horse had not begun to run until then, and that she had been 
holding him in. Fie shot forward like an arrow, and as Celia 
crossed the line, a winner by full ten lengths, bonnetless and with 
her hair down and flying in the wind, the enthusiasm knew no 
bounds and the audience went wild. It was soon hushed, however, 
for the horse being fiery, and not used to the whip, it had stirred 
him up, and he appeared to be running off. The cry went up, 
“He is running away! Stop him!” A skilled horseman shot out 
from the judges’ stand and reined his horse at the side of the track 
to catch the runaway as our sister came around. The use of the 
whip and falling of our sister’s bonnet had scared and frenzied her 


Bonnie Belmont. 


133 


horse for a time, and he was indeed unmanageable. Celia’s nerve 
never forsook her. She held a firm rein as she passed the grand¬ 
stand for a fourth time and guided her runaway horse with a master 
hand between, and clear of the other horses. As the gentleman on 
horseback started from the grandstand to her assistance she cried 
out, “Let him alone! Don’t you see you’ll only make him run the 
faster! He’ll cool down presently.” At this the audience again 
went wild. By the time the horse came around again he was more 
tractable and was taken in charge. During the whole race there 
was no more interested spectator than Dr. Updegrafif. When our 
sister came in ahead he clapped his hands in great glee, and when 
she cried out to let her alone, he did it again. As she alighted from 
the horse she said, “I want to thank you, Dr. Updegrafif, for this 
race, for I owe it to you and your splendid horse.” “He is truly a 
noble animal. You owe the race to yourself and your splendid and 
fearless horsemanship,” he replied, “though really I was scared 
myself for a while. I soon saw you knew how to handle a horse, 
not only in a race, but when he is excited, and I knew what the out¬ 
come would be.” 

“Our sister never forgot that race, but she always claimed it 
was the horse which won it, and that Miss VanPelt and Miss Frazier 
were as good riders as she. Dear, kind-hearted Lucelia! Many 
pleasant incidents of the farm with which she was connected were 
recalled when they brought her back from her beautiful home in 
the Shenandoah Valley, to be laid at rest in the family burial ground 
in the old Weeks cemetery. 


134 


Revivals. 


Revivals. 

/ 

T HE religious revivals of the Methodist Episcopal denomina¬ 
tions in early times were not without their interesting fea¬ 
tures to an inquisitive boy. To the staid, sturdy, practical 
Scotch Presbyterian, many of the acquisitions to that church, made 
under a spirit of such religious excitement, were considered out of 
place. It was truly surprising to witness some of these 
conversions made under a spirit of such intense religious fervency. 
Shouting and screaming at the full top of the voice was often in¬ 
dulged in from the mourners’ bench, at which penitents knelt, or¬ 
dinarily in front of the pulpit, while the members prayed, sang and 
shouted around them, and others were out among the audience, 
urging them to go forward, under the penalty of an eternal punish¬ 
ment in an actual yawning hell of fire and brimstone to which they 
were sure to be consigned, without repentance. Paintings among 
the women were not infrequent, and the sobs, shouting, singing, 
praying, weeping and exhorting all going on at once, produced at 
times, much confusion. Under the present day refinement and edu¬ 
cation, these scenes are dispensed with, and this denomination is 
now one of the most prosperous and influential in the land. It has 
always been intensely loyal to the country, was a great support to 
Abraham Lincoln during the war, causing him to exclaim in his 
darkest hour, “God bless the Methodist Church.” 

While quite a lad attending a revival meeting with my father, 
who was a Methodist, at the Methodist Church in Martins Ferry, 
I witnessed the following occurrence: The mourners’ bench was 
pretty well filled, the meeting was one of great excitement, and the 
minister was exhorting from the platform back of the railing in 
front of the pulpit. He was attacking in unmeasured tones, infidels 
and infidelity, urging that such a doctrine would not do to die by. 
He gave as evidence of this, a story of the death of the infidel, 
Captain Ethan Allen, which he claimed as having read in a religious 
periodical. He related that when that celebrated commander of 
the Green Mountain Boys in the war of the Revolution came to die, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


135 


his only daughter came to his bedside and said, “Father, you have 
taught me one faith, and my mother, who is a Christian member of 
the church, has taught me another. Now, which shall I believe and 
follow, your teachings or my mother’s?” The old hero replied, 
‘Believe your mother’s, my daughter,” and so he died. At this 
moment the minister, with flushed face and flashing eye, pointed 
his finger directly at Samuel Faris, who with a friend, Mr. Topping, 
was sitting in the seat in front of Jacob VanPelt, my father and me, 
and some three seats back from the front, and said, “And if you will 
stop talking there, Mr. Faris, I will teil you more about it.” Faris 
had whispered something in the ear of his companion, while the 
minister was talking, and the latter had noticed his movement. He 
could not have overheard what Faris said, for I could not do so, al¬ 
though almost touching him. When publicly named in this way, 
Faris arose, and in a calm voice, enquired, “Will the gentleman 
state from what periodical he obtained that statement?” The min¬ 
ister cried out in great passion, “Shut up, sir! Shut up !” “I desire 
to say,” said Faris with great calmness, “that the periodical from 
which the gentleman obtained his statement is not a periodical, 
but a novel, entitled, ‘Ethan Allen,’ or ‘The Captain of the Green 
Mountain Boys.’ I desire to state further that Captain Ethan Allen 
never had a daughter. He died childless.” 

At this juncture all was confusion and uproar. The minister 
sprang over the short railing and made his way rapidly toward 
Faris, exclaiming, “If you will not shut up, I will shut you up!” 
Jacob VanPelt took the arm of Mr. Faris and quietly said, “Mr. 
Faris, you must leave the church. This is causing too much dis¬ 
turbance.” “Certainly,” said Faris, “I will go with you,” and they 
walked to the door together. The minister tried to get at Faris, but 
was prevented, though he followed to the door. Pretty soon the 
minister came back down the aisle, and with a face full of victory, 
began singing in a loud voice: 

The devil’s mad 

And I am glad, 

O, halle-hallelujah! etc. 

And so the meeting continued to a late hour. They had Faris 
arrested the next day before Squire James Bane, and fined five dol- 


136 


Revivals. 


lars for interrupting religious worship. Faris was an educated 
gentleman of considerable ability, and while he was technically 
guilty of the charge, there would have been no interruption had it 
not been brought on by the conduct of the minister. This was the 
judgment of Jacob VanPelt, my father, and many other dignified 
members of the church. Pioneer days produced characters more 
rugged and perhaps coarser than do our refinements of today, and 
in handling masses then, methods were necessarily different. 


Bonnik Belmont. 


137 


Quaker Meeting. 



RUE to his promise, Jack drove to the home of Minerva’s sis¬ 


ter early on that beautiful autumn Sabbath. The morning 


was ideal, a light rain, just sufficient to lay the dust, having 
fallen during the night, adding a freshness to all surroundings. The 
birds seemed to enjoy it, for they sang their sweetest songs. The 
green grass in the meadow and pasture lands appeared revived, 
though the denuded corn fields were a little brown. The woods 
had taken on that mellow, russet, autumn hue, brought out in splen¬ 
did contrast by the bright red leaves of the sugar maple. The pop¬ 
lar leaves had mostly fallen and lay scattered in tints and shades of 
variegated beauty upon the ground. The breeze and atmosphere 
could not have been more bracing, tempered as they were by that 
dreamy, softening sensation of autumn. The drive along the road 
to Jobetown, and indeed for miles further on, is one of engaging 
loveliness. 

Minerva greeted Jack with bright smiling face, and they were 
soon on their way to Mt. Pleasant. “What a glorious morn¬ 
ing!” she exclaimed. “And now, I hope you are happy 
this morning, for I have spent such a lovely week with my 
sister and her family among these delightful woods.” “I am al¬ 
ways happy when contemplating an hour with you,” Jack replied, 
“and I am rejoiced you have been so. Do you know, I have had 
quite a sense of loneliness in your absence for the last week. Now 
tell me, Minerva, do you have no feeling of that nature when away 
from me?” “For how long?” she asked. “Oh, is it gauged by 
time,” Jack remarked. “Well, let us say for one week in these 
beautiful woods.” “Just the least little bit,” she said, with a laugh 
and a blush. 

“But now, I want you to tell me something about this Society 
of Friends, their history and religious belief, as we ride along.” “I 
am not the most correct authority on those subjects,” Jack replied, 
“but I can give you my best information and recollection. The 
religious belief of the Society of Friends was first preached and 


138 Quaker Meeting. 

promulgated by George Fox in England, in 1647. It was the result 
of the Protestant Reformation. They teach that man’s salvation is 
a personal matter between him and his God, and does not depend 
upon the church, its officers, rites, ordinances, or ceremony, or mem¬ 
bership in it. They teach that the Holy Spirit moves upon and en¬ 
lightens every soul, revealing its true condition and teaching it the 
need of a Savior; that Christ’s promise to plant a new life in the 
soul to lead it in righteousness, had become a practical reality, of 
which every true believer would sooner or later become cognizant. 
That baptism is by Christ of the Holy Spirit breathed into the soul 
of man, which is made manifest by works and actions. That true 
communion is the spiritual partaking of the body and blood of 
Jesus Christ by faith, and that there is no form of priesthood or 
sacerdotalism in the true apostolic Christian Church of which they 
are the representatives. They believe in the trinity of Father, 
Jesus Christ, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. They believe in the 
resurrection, a future state, and a future knowledge of each other. 
Some believe in the resurrection of the body, and some do not. 
Much liberality of individual belief is permitted, their desire being 
to imitate Christ. They hold that the Church of Jesus Christ is 
composed of those persons who, through repentance of their sins 
and faith in Christ as their Savior, have been born into his King¬ 
dom by the Holy Spirit. By the revelation of the Holy Spirit they 
look to Christ as their Prophet, Priest and King, and by the Spirit’s 
baptism and power, are enabled to resist temptation and to live in 
obedience to God’s holy will. That a Christian denomination is an 
organization of those who hold similar views of the teachings of 
the Holy Scriptures. That the Scriptures are inspired. That 
Christ is the Head of the church, dwells in the hearts of His believ¬ 
ers, and that as they look for His guidance, their understandings are 
enlightened and they are enabled to do His will. That salvation is 
the deliverance from sin, and the possession of spiritual life. This 
comes through a personal faith in Jesus Christ as the Savior, who, 
through His love and sacrifice, draws us to Him. That conviction 
of sin is awakened by the operation of the Holy Spirit causing the 
soul to feel its need of reconciliation with God. When Christ is 
seen as the only hope of salvation, and man yields to Him, he is 
brought into newness of life, and realizes that his sonship to God 
has become an actual reality. This is wrought without the neces- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


J 39 


sary agency of any human priest, ordinance or ceremony whatever. 
A changed nature and life bear witness to this new relation to Him. 
Members have equal rights and privileges in the denomination, 
modified only by the gifts they have received and their works. 

“Each denominational body has its own system of government, 
and rules of observance and business. There are no distinctions 
in the rights, privileges and responsibilities of members because of 
sex, and business of the organization is transacted in meetings in 
which every member has a right to participate. 

“Worship is neither in forms, nor in the disuse of forms. It 
may be without words as well as with them. Both silent and vocal 
worship is recognized. The name ‘Friends’ was taken in accord¬ 
ance with the declaration of the Master:- ‘Ye are my friends if ye 
do whatsoever I command you.’ 

“They have monthly, quarterly and yearly meetings, the latter 
being the governing power. All who make profession of faith in 
Jesus Christ, whose lives testify to a union with Him, and who 
accept the doctrine of the Friends, may become members, after ex¬ 
amination and approval by an appointed committee. Children of 
members are enrolled as associate members until twenty-one years 
old, when, if they give no evidence of a true Christian, they are 
dropped. Members are required to marry in meeting. Parties 
desiring to marry must inform the monthly meeting of which one 
or both are members, which shall be entered on the minutes, and 
if either is a minor, the consent of the parent must be obtained. 
This notice lies over until the next monthly meeting, and if objec¬ 
tions have been raised, a committee is appointed to investigate. If 
no objection appears the parties are allowed to marry ten days 
thereafter, according to the rules of discipline. A committee of 
two male and two female Friends are appointed to be present and 
see that the ceremony is properly performed, and make report to 
the monthly meeting. No marriages are allowed contrary to the 
State laws. At a suitable time in the meeting, the parties stand 
up, and taking each other by the right hand, declare, the man first: 

“ ‘In the presence of the Lord and before these witnesses, I 
take thee, C. D., to be my wife, promising, with Divine assistance, 
to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband, as long as we shall 
live.’ The same promise is made by the bride, and they then sign 
a certificate, the man first, the woman adopting the name of her 


140 


Quaker Meeting. 


husband, which is then read aloud by some one, and at the con¬ 
clusion of the meeting it is signed by others as witnesses. If a 
member marries out of meeting, the other contracting party must 
first become a member; otherwise the member is dropped. No di¬ 
vorces are permitted except for the causes set forth in the Holy 
Scriptures. 

“All members are warned against tobacco, opium and liquors. 
Parents are strictly enjoined to be careful to educate their children 
in plainness of speech, deportment and apparel, and to guard them 
from reading pernicious books and from corrupt conversations of 
the world, and to encourage them in the daily reading of the Holy 
.Scriptures. 

“The first Friends’ meeting in this section was held in 1803, by 
Jonathan Taylor, in the woods near the site of the Concord, or 
Colerain meeting house. The first meeting house was constructed 
on Short Creek at a cost of two thousand dollars, in 1806, and that 
at Mt. Pleasant in 1813, and the first yearly meeting was held in it 
in 1814. At the Short Creek meeting house, Dr. J. E. Bailey, editor 
of the “Philanthropist,” at Cincinnati, Ohio, organized the first Anti- 
Slavery Society, in April, 1837. 

“A portion branched off from the orthodox society in 1827, 
under the leadership of Elias Hicks, who denies the divinity of 
Christ. They are now called Hicksites. A division took place in 
1847 under the leaderships of Jno. Wilbur and Joseph John Gurney, 
respectively, one faction being now called the Wilberites and the 
other the Gurneyites. The latter is regarded as the orthodox so¬ 
ciety. Friends emigrated to Massachusetts as early as 1656, where 
they were imprisoned, banished, and in four cases in which they re¬ 
turned, were hanged ; all through an ignorant, intolerant persecution. 
Charles II. put a stop to this persecution. They have always been 
an intellectual, honest, sturdy people, and wherever you find a set¬ 
tlement of Friends, you will find an educational and intellectual 
vein prevailing which is quite marked. They oppose war, as violat¬ 
ing the teachings of Christ and humanity. They are, and ever have 
been, the firm opponents of slavery. They have been the friends of 
the Indians, have inaugurated many reforms, such as those in 
prisons, and the institutions for the insane, and many other philan¬ 
thropic movements. Believing that oaths were forbidden by Christ, 


Bonnie Belmont. 141 

they refuse to be sworn, and have obtained the right to affirm. 
Their plainness of dress is a striking characteristic.” 

“Yes,” said Minerva, “but I notice the material is always the best. 
But I do not see why the women at least, did not adopt some other more 
presentable style, especially in their bonnets.” “May not this plain 
style prevent beauty from becoming too temptingly displayed some¬ 
times, and thus comport with their teachings in moderation of 
thoughts, even in the affections,” Jack replied. “Well, I think if 
this is the motives, the bonnet is a success,” she rejoined, with a 
laugh. 

“My admiration for William Penn was always very profound,” 
said Minerva. “I certainly regard him as the greatest practical 
example of man’s duty toward man, as well as the teachings of 
Christianity, since the days of Christ.” “And yet,” Jack replied, 
“he fell short of living up to the full measure of their ancient belief, 
for the Friends were most devoted believers in such a practical 
every day life, as should exemplify in most decided social realism, 
the brotherly love of Jesus Christ. There is certainly great 
grandeur in the teachings of John Woolman, if not the greatest, cer¬ 
tainly one of the greatest expounders of their belief, when he uses 
the following: ‘The prospect of our common interest from which 
our own is inseparable, so that to turn all we possess into the chan¬ 
nel of universal love, becomes the business of our lives. When 
house is joined to house, and field laid to field, until there is no 
place, and the poor are thereby straitened, though this is done by 
bargain and purchase, yet so far as it stands distinguished from uni¬ 
versal love, so far that woe predicted by the prophets will accom¬ 
pany their proceedings. As he who first founded the earth was 
then the true proprietor of it, so he still remains; and though he 
hath given it to the children of men, so that multitudes of people 
have had their sustenance from it while they continued here, yet he 
hath never alienated it, but his right is as good as at first; nor can 
any apply the increase of their possessions contrary to universal 
love, nor dispose of lands in a way which they know tends to exalt 
some by oppressing others, without being justly chargeable with 
usurpation.’ ” 

“But do you believe such a state of economic, social and re- 
lig-ious life will ever obtain?” said Minerva. “I believe it will,” 
Jack replied. “I believe it is coming more rapidly than we imagine. 


142 


Quaker Meeting. 


There will be no peace, and very little true love, under the present 
economic conditions, where, by the legal fictions of acquirement 
and ownership of property the strong and wealthy are encouraged 
to rob the weak and poor, even to starvation. The poor will ulti¬ 
mately discover this, redress, perhaps retribution, will follow. In¬ 
deed, the wealthy little know what they owe to the forbearance of 
the poor.” “But how is such radical economic and social change 
likely to be brought about?” inquired Minerva. “It would be best 
for the cause, and possibly for humanity, that it be gradual,” Jack 
rejoined. “Economic, social conditions are not arrived at in a day. 
We have been for ages growing into our present erroneous, intri¬ 
cate, social and economic state, and when one scrutinizes the sel¬ 
fishness, inequality and injustice wrapped up in it, he wonders 
why we have been able to attain under it the little decency we 
have. There should not be such a thing as private ownership of 
natural property on the earth; and possibly but a qualified owner¬ 
ship in acquired property. God made natural property for all, and 
a lew have appropriated it under our system, and the great masses 
are suffering privations, while there is a great plenty for all. The 
great wonder is, this plenty legitimately belongs to the poor, whose 
labor and toil made it. But to come to a more practical answer to 
your question, I would say, let the government, which in this 
country under our elective franchise system, means the people, 
appropriate as rapidly as possible all public utilities, such as rail¬ 
roads, telegraph lines, street car and other transportation facilities, 
the coal fields, and these to be added to as rapidly as necessity sug¬ 
gests. By this means, taking one of these for illustration, the mul¬ 
tiplied millions of net yearly profits arising from a line of railroad, 
would become the property of the people instead of going toward 
building up out of the muscles of the employes of this system— 
who get to see their half-starved, half-clothed and poorly educated 
families but once in a fortnight—aristocratic families to intermarry 
with bankrupt titled royalty in Europe. There is too much collosal 
wealth right alongside abject squalor and suffering. A great po¬ 
litical revolution is now impending as to the emancipation of the 
black race. The next will be as to the white. I trust they will 
both be bloodless.” 

The Friends’ meeting house at Mt. Pleasant is quite roomy 
and with a large gallery, is said to have capacity for two thousand. 























































Rev. David B. Updegraff 

Noted Evangelist and Abolitionist, Mt. Pleasant, Ohio. 




Bonnie Belmont. 


143 


On this occasion it was filled and many could not get in. Minerva 
and Jack were fortunate in arriving early and secured comfortable 
seats. The services began about ten o’clock and lasted until high 
noon. The female members were seated on one side of the room 
and the males on the other. For some little time after the hour for 
opening, a death-like stillness prevailed over the whole assembly. 
So pronounced did this become, that a pin-drop might have been 
heard. It is singular how deeply impressive these moments of 
silent communion are. A quiet, thoughtful, meditative communion 
with one’s soul thoughts, always produces a peculiar sensation; but 
when one knows he is surrounded by a congregation of many hun¬ 
dred human beings, all holding silent converse with their inner 
consciences, that spiritual element so close to God, it becomes awful 
and self-convicting. There is certainly a great power of some kind 
in these silent, self-inquisitions. Jack and Minerva were deeply 
impressed with their force on this occasion. This silence was ulti¬ 
mately broken by addresses from a number of female and male 
members, which were continued for over two hours. Many of 
them were quite interesting. But the most powerfully eloquent, 
convincing and soul-inspiring were those delivered by Mrs. Sarah 
Tenkens and Caroline Talbott. I think as an eloquent evangelist, 
Mrs. Jenkins had few, if any, equals. She was the daughter 
of David Updegrafif and sister to Hon. Jonathan and Rev. 
David Updegrafif, the eloquent and celebrated evangelist. Her 
mother was Rebecca Taylor, daughter of Jonathan Taylor, the pio¬ 
neer Friend preacher of Belmont County. Miss Grace Updegrafif, 
daughter of Rev. David Updegrafif, is the finest singer I have ever 
heard, and is now the wife of a minister. 

After enjoying the hospitality of Friends and again attending 
their meeting in the afternoon, Minerva and Jack started on a leis¬ 
urely return ride by moonlight to her sister’s, and thence to her 
home. Just as they arrived at the foot of the hill on the present 
pike, something over a mile south of Mt. Pleasant, Minerva in¬ 
quired, “Are we not somewhere near the house where the romantic 
marriage of our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Chandler, took place?” 
“Yes,” Jack replied, “that neat hewed log house which you see on 
our right, just ahead of us, is the place. It was pointed out to me 
by Mr. and Mrs. Chandler, and Mr. Chandler related the inci¬ 
dents of that elopement and wedding in the presence of his wife, 


144 


Quaker Meeting. 


and both appeared to enjoy it.” “Would you care to tell me 
of them?” said Minerva. “Certainly not,” Jack rejoined. “John 
Hogg, the father of Mrs. Chandler, was a very wealthy man, in fact, 
as you know, altogether the most wealthy in this whole section. 
He opposed the marriage, and for no assignable reason, excepting 
possibly, the fact that Mr. Chandler was not blessed with an abund¬ 
ance of this world’s goods. Mr. Chandler is an exceptionally fine 
man, educated, most exemplary and respected and loved by every¬ 
body. They secured the services of a strong, resolute driver, with a 
closed vehicle, into which Mr. Chandler entered unobserved, and was 
driven to the house of a friend in the southeast end of town, where 
Miss Thersa Hogg, now Mrs. Chandler, was awaiting by pre¬ 
arrangement. They were driven hastily to this log cabin, where a 
domestic friend of the proposed bride resided, and there quickly 
married by a minister in waiting. They immediately took the re¬ 
turn road to Mt. Pleasant until they struck the road at its southeast 
end, leading to Steubenville, to which latter place they started with 
all speed. 

“The Hogg family had been keeping a close watch over Thersa, 
and her absence was discovered soon after thev had turned in 
on the Steubenville road. Her oldest brother, William, a man then 
between thirty-five and forty, immediately hitched a span of swift 
horses to a light buggy and the pursuit to Steubenville began. He 
was in utter ignorance of the fact the marriage had already taken 
place. He overtook them somewhere on the road, passed them, and 
then taking a position in front of the runaway carriage, sprang out, 
caught the bits of the horses attached to it and stopped it, demand¬ 
ing of the driver if his sister and Chandler were in there. The 
driver replied in the affirmative. ‘Then I demand that you turn this 
team around and drive her back to Mt. Pleasant instantly.’ ‘I shall 
do whatever Mr. Chandler says about that,’ replied the driver. ‘You 
will do what I say about it,’ replied Hogg. ‘This girl is my sister. 
I am here by order of her father to bring her back, and I shall 
have you arrested for this.’ 

“At this, Mr. Chandler opened the door and said, ‘Now, Mr. 
Hogg, I desire to say, you are the one who will be arrested if you 
do not release your hold on that team. Neither you nor your 
father has any control longer over Thersa. She is of age and can 
do and go as she pleases. She is now my wife, I having married 


Bonnie Belmont. 


145 


her in the last hour, and you have no right in law to assault us in 
this manner on our bridal trip in the public highway.’ ‘Do you 
mean to say you are already married?’ said Hogg. ‘I do, and here 
is the marriage certificate,’ said Mr. Chandler. ‘It makes no differ¬ 
ence, I want you to get out of there, Thersa, and go home with 
me,’ replied Hogg, in a most peremptory manner. ‘I shall not do it. 
I choose to go where I please, and that shall certainly be with my 
husband,’ replied Mrs. Chandler in terms quite as determined. 
‘Then I shall turn this team and make you go,’ said Hogg, as he 
grasped the reins of the bridle. ‘Let go that bridle,’ demanded the 
driver, as he sprang to the ground and struck him a fearful blow 
over the knuckles with the handle of the whip. He loosed his 
hold and stepped back, and the driver followed him up, saying, 
‘Now if you lay the weight of your finger on this team or carriage, 
or any one in it, I’ll use the butt of this hickory whip handle over 
your head.’ Hogg knew the prowess of the man, and slowly went 
to his buggy with a badly bruised hand. He followed them a short 
distance, but finally on more mature reflection, turned and went to 
Mt. Pleasant, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Chandler to enjoy their honey¬ 
moon. A family reconciliation soon followed, and no member in it 
was subsequently more highly regarded by the others than Mr. 
Chandler.” 

“Yes,” said Minerva, “and they are now living so happily to¬ 
gether it adds additional proof of the truthfulness of the old aphor¬ 
ism, ‘The course of true love never did run smooth.’ What a nice, 
attractive home they have now. It is such a delight to go there. I 
shall always be thankful we have such neighbors. By the way,” 
she said, “I learn our friend Charlie Chandler is going to college this 
fall at Twinsburg, and that you are going likewise? Will you 
please tell me where? You know I am interested.” “Charlie is 
going this fall,” Jack replied, “but I shall continue my studies at the 
Martins Ferry High School this winter, and shall not go to college 
until next fall, when I expect to go to Oberlin.” “Oh, yes!” said 
Minerva, “now that you mention Oberlin, you see Aunt Tilda at the 
Cochran home occasionally. Has she ever heard from Lucinda 
since her escape, some seven years ago?” “We have only heard in 
a quiet way of the routes she and Sam took and of an incident or 
two which transpired while on their way, but after she arrived at 
Oberlin they both seem to have dropped into oblivion. They have 


146 


Quaker Meeting. 


written there more than once, but if the postmaster there, or others 
who have been written to, know of them, they refuse to respond, 
possibly out of fear of discovery. Aunt Tilda grieves after her, and 
longs to hear something of her, but her chief concern is about ‘Poor 
Mose,’ as she so often calls him, with tears in her eyes. She gets 
down by her bed morning and evening, as regularly as the sun rises 
and sets and prays God to free her poor boy. I tell you, Minerva, 
I never heard such pathetic appeals as that tender-hearted mother 
sends to a throne of grace for her ‘Poor Mose.’ I think she has a 
much deeper and more abiding affection for Mose than for Lucinda, 
though she undoubtedly loves her. We asked her why this was 
once, and she replied, “Ah, honey, he looks gist like his dear faddah 
and he acts gist like his dear faddah, dat dey took from me to die in 
de rice fields ob South Carline. He was de only man dat I ebber 
lobed, and dey took him away in de prime ob his manhood, and I 
neber seed him moah. But Ps gwine to see him some ob dese days, 
honey, ’way up dah in Hebben, foh God’s gwine to take me up dah 
soon. Ps gwine soon, honey, but Pd like to see my blessed Mose 
gist once befoh I goes. De good God hab promised me I will see 
my boy Mose befoh I die, and I will see him, honey, suh 1 suh! 
God’s gwine to put a stop to this terrible slavery, honey. I seed it 
in my sleep. I seed it in my vision; but oh, dat terrible blood! 
blood! blood! But it’s cornin’! Bless God, it’s cornin’! You’se will 
all help, my dear honeys, every one of you’se will help! God bless 
you!’ This is the way she talks, and she claims to have a great 
vision of a terrible war and bloodshed.” “Has she ever heard from 
Mose?” inquired Minerva. “Not a word since she bade him good¬ 
bye at the auction block in Wheeling,” Jack replied. “It does seem 
singlar,” said Minerva. “Politically, the times look ominous enough. 
It looks as though the debates of Judge Douglas and Abraham 
Lincoln have presented the latter as the logical Republican candi¬ 
date for the next presidential election. You know he has asserted 
the nation cannot exist half slave and half free. This seems to 
have fired the Southern heart and awakened the entire North.” 
“Do you think the South will carry out its avowed purpose of 
disrupting the government if a Republican president is elected?” 
“They may try it,” Jack replied. “It will have to be fought out 
some time, I think, and it may as well come now as in the future. 
The South is determined to force this infamous African slavery 


Bonnie Belmont. 


147 


upon the whole country, and will be satisfied with nothing less. 
We have already had one war in acquiring new territory for them 
for this purpose, and they will stop short of nothing but absolute 
subjugation of every foot of our territory to this debasing system. 
Lincoln is right. Oil and water will not mix,” said Jack. “What 
do you think of Helper’s book, entitled, ‘The Impending Crisis’?” 
said Minerva. “I think it grand and convincing. It and Harriet 
Beecher’s ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ are doing the work, and I am satis¬ 
fied we are on the eve of a great political and economic revolution.” 

“What were the incidents you learned as to Lucinda’s and 
Sam’s journey to Oberlin?” said Minerva. “After Lucinda had re¬ 
mained a week or more at Joshua Cope’s, and learning that Max¬ 
well had placed men on the line from Mt. Pleasant to Oberlin, 
Lucinda was at night quietly removed to the house of Wm. Robin¬ 
son in Trenton, who seems to have a means of concealment which 
no one is able to discover. From there, through intermediate stops, 
and in order to be out of the path of the searchers, she ultimately 
reached the home of Isaac Clendennen, near Chester Hill, some ten 
miles south of McConnellsville. From there she was taken to Mc- 
Connellsville and finally reached Oberlin. The vigilance of the 
searchers was very great. As Mr. Clendennen passed through 
Pennsville with Lucinda riding beside him dressed up in his wife’s 
clothes and long Quaker bonnet heavily veiled, the searchers were 
sitting on the hotel porch, and as the former leisurely passed, a by¬ 
stander remarked, ‘There goes Isaac Clendennen and his wife.’ 

“Sam was first taken to Mt. Pleasant, thence to Smithfield, 
Salineville, Hanoverton, New Garden, Salem, and then we lose trace 
of him.” 

“I see you are booked as one of the debaters in the contest of the 
Mountain View Literary Society with that of Farmington, at Black¬ 
ford’s schoolhouse next Saturday night on ‘Squatter Sovereignty,’ ” 
said Minerva. “I trust you will acquit yourself nobly, for I expect 
to be present. But will you please inform me as to the real mean¬ 
ing of the term ? I never quite understood it.” “It is the pet 
hobby of Judge Douglas, who advocates the plan of determining by 
popular vote of the inhabitants of each territory the question as to 
whether it shall become a free or slave state, free of the interference 
of Congress. It is derisively called ‘Squatter,’ instead of ‘popular’ 
sovereignty, indicative of the habit of pro slavery advocates going 


148 


Quaker Meeting. 

from Missouri and other slave states to Kansas and other territories 
and squatting on a piece of land a sufficient length of time to vote, 
and then going back home. I fully expect to be beaten, as I am 
on the affirmative, arguing clearly against my convictions, and our 
opponents, Cope and Dungan, are able debaters. I, however, have 
a forcible and logical assistant in Alexander McBride.” 

As Minerva and Jack, in their moonlight drive arrived at the 
bridge which crosses Little Short Creek on the old plank road 
southeast of and close by the Solomon Bracken, now the Cleaver 
mansion, they came upon a gipsy camp close by the side of the 
road. Jack stopped the horse for a few minutes to take in the 
strange appearance and interesting surroundings and adornments 
of this small fraction of that ever restless, wandering race, if race 
it may be called. Their equipage appeared more handsomely 
adorned by far than usual, and their horses fine ones and in good 
condition. Two milch cows were tethered on the grass close 
to the creek. What appeared to be a handsomely painted and 
gilded show wagon with large landscape views finely painted on the 
sides, with a lion couchant in the distant perspective with the word 
“Queen” in gilded letters above, stood a little apart from the other 
wagons. Around the smoldering embers of what had been their 
supper fire, sat a number of men smoking, while a little to one side 
sac the black haired women, one or two of whom were not by 
any means bad looking. They were well dressed in that same 
manner so indicative of that nomadic people. As we sat looking at 
the “Queen” wagon, or chariot, a finely paneled door at the rear end 
opened and a pair of brussel carpeted steps unfolded to the ground. 
Down these steps came one of the most striking, not to say im¬ 
posing, human creatures. Jack felt ill at ease the moment she laid 
eyes on him. She was tall and commanding, with hair as black 
and glossy as it well could be, with the blackest and most piercing 
eyes he ever beheld. Her clothing was of the very finest silk, artis¬ 
tically made and fitted, and she had on her fingers four gold rings 
set with large diamonds so nicely cut as to sparkle in the moonlight. 
The buckles of her shoes were of bright silver, and she wore a band 
ol gold around her head imitative of a crown, with sparkling stone 
settings and scintillating stars. She walked up to within ten feet of 
Jack and Minerva and stood piercing them through and through with 
her look without uttering a word. Jack returned her gaze with a half 


Bonnie Belmont. 


149 


inquisitive smile. She slowly turned her eyes upon Minerva, and 
Jack for a moment felt relieved. He noticed Minerva’s cheek red¬ 
dening under what seemed to him to be her inquisitorial insolence. 
Indeed, Jack saw her growing pale under it, and it angered him. 
I he gipsy slowly turned her eyes again upon Jack, and in a surpris¬ 
ingly sweet, musical voice said, ‘‘I came out to tell your fortunes, 
sir, but when I see your faces and read the honest love you have 
for your companion, and know what is in store for you, I desist.” 
“Is it because you imagined I do not believe in such nonsense and 
would not pay for such foolishness if you did?” Jack replied. “I 
asked you for no money,” she retorted, “nor did I intend to. I re¬ 
frain not for the skeptical, mercenary reasons you name. They are 
below my dignity and purpose. I refrain because I have a better 
soul in me than you are wont to ascribe to any of my people. I 
want not your filthy money. In my veins runs the blood of princes 
and kings. I desisted from a feeling of humanity—for the sake of 
that kindred blood which makes us all brothers.” “Since it is to 
cost me nothing, what is the future evil to us which your porten- 
tious words imply?” Jack said with a laugh, for he really loved 
to hear her voice, and he felt a vague interest in what she said, 
though he tried to laugh it off. “You are trifling with dangerous 
things, sir,” she rejoined. “You love that noble hearted creature 
beside you and she is worth)’' of it. You have loved her all your 
life, and have told her so. That was honest and manly of you. I 
shall not tell you what her feelings are for you. I leave that for 
her to do in her own time, as she has promised you. You laugh 
now. The time is coming when you will cry, for your soul will be 
full of bitterness, but I shall not tell you why. It is written in fate. 
Good-bye, and when it comes, remember what the Queen of the gip¬ 
sies said to you, and then laugh, if you can!” She, with a most 
graceful wave of the hand and queenly stride, disappeared within 
ihe chariot and the door closed behind her. Both Minerva and 
Jack were struck with her beauty, the softness and music of her 
voice and cultivated expression. They rode in silence for some 
little distance, when Minerva broke it by asking Jack how she im¬ 
pressed him. “Most ominously and forcibly,” Jack replied. “Some 
way I am impressed she was telling facts of the future, though I am 
absolutely and entirely convinced of the fallacy of divination.” 
“You must believe nothing of the kind,” she rejoined. “It is all 


150 Quaker Meeting. 

folly. She only wanted to make an impression; you must not think 
about it. I am getting concerned about your superstitions, or to 
say the least of it, ominous feelings of late.” “But Minerva, she 
told us so many things that were true as to our lives since our 
childhood,” Jack rejoined. “O, she was only guessing, and that’s 
all there is of it. Here, I want you to enjoy the evening breeze,” 
she said, as she removed his hat to her lap and pushed back his 
hair, looking into his eyes. 

As they wended their way up the plank road from the creek, 
a form arose from a clump of alders by the fence at the roadside, 
and with hat removed in a most deferential manner, approached the 
buggy and bowing respectfully, said, “Skuse me, sah, but will you 
please sah, tell me wha am de house of Mistah Vichahs, sah?” It 
proved to be a negro, and Jack could tell from his polite manner 
and dialect he was a plantation slave, possibly striking for his free¬ 
dom. “That is the house of Isaac Vickers, right there,” Jack re¬ 
plied, “and if you are trying to obtain your freedom he is the man 
who will help you do it. Go right to his house and say nothing to 
anyone but Mr. Vickers himself. He is a good man and will help 
you. But now, look here, I want to caution you. You must not 
approach everybody you meet in the way you did us just now, for 
they might inform on you and send you back to slavery again. Be 
governed by what Mr. Vickers, or those having you in charge, may 
advise, and show yourself as little as possible and tell no one you 
are a slave.” “Yes, sah, thanks, sah. I thought when I seed dat 
nice young miss wid you, sah, you’s ail’d be kind to me and hope 
me to git away, sah.” “That is all right,” Jack said. “We are your 
friends and will do anything we can. Now, go over to the house 
there and if you do not find Mr. Vickers, return here and we will 
see what we can do for you.” They watched him until Mr. Vickers 
met him at the door, and then drove slowly on. “There now, Mi¬ 
nerva,” Jack remarked, “you have been guilty in aiding in the es¬ 
cape of a fugitive slave, and are therefore liable to arrest and im¬ 
prisonment under the benevolent liberty-fostering laws of this great 
Republic.” “I think if we were arrested I could successfully charge 
it on you,” she said laughingly. “But tell me, suppose Mr. Vickers 
had not been there, or had refused, what would you have done?” 
“I had little fear of the latter contingency,” Jack replied. “But I 


























































■ 






* 










, 










































Rev. Benjamin Mitcitei.l, 


D.D 




Bonnie Belmont. 151 

would have either taken him down there to Isaac Loyd’s, Solomon 
Bracken's, or up the hill to Dr. Benjamin Mitchell’s.” 

Note—(In quite recent years and long since the incidents of 
this story transpired, a small, secret chamber between two rooms, 
approached by a closet, has been discovered in this Mitchell build¬ 
ing, and a number of families have resided in the house who were 
not aware of it.) 

They arrived at Minerva’s in due time, and after bidding her 
good-night, Jack drove reflectively back the plank road to the Mc¬ 
Bride farm and down Buckeye Run to his home. The truth is, the 
ill-omened words of the gipsy worried him, and he could not shake 
them off. He went to sleep to dream of weeping over the dead 
body of Minerva, and was awakened from a hideous nightmare by 
his brother. 


*52 


Grandfather's Story. 


Grandfather’s Story. 

O NE evening, at Minerva’s request, we took a stroll to our 
grandfather’s, along the sandy road a few hundred yards 
east of the Tavern. He was glad to see us and invited 
us to have seats with him on the front porch. At this time our grand¬ 
father was nearing his ninety-ninth year, but his memory seemed 
clear and remarkable. He was a man of most powerful build, stood 
six feet three inches in his stockings, was remarkably erect, with 
broad chest, muscular limbs, and a large head which appeared a 
little long. He had most piercing gray eyes and his broad fore¬ 
head seemed to me magnificent. His face had a genial glow and 
warmed into attractiveness when greeting an acquaintance, or ani¬ 
mated by friendly intercourse. He was a man of remarkable self- 
control, dignified and deferential, carrying with him at all times 
that strange, commanding, indefinable influence characteristic of a 
long line of educated ancestry, incapable of being destroyed even 
by the hardships and privations of a pioneer life to which he had 
been inured. He was well fixed in life, owning large landed estate 
and other property. In my long acquaintance with him I recollect 
to have seen him really angry but once. To me his appearance on 
such occasions was indescribably awe-inspiring. In fact it was ter¬ 
rible. His rosy lips took on a death-like pallor and knit themselves 
with a determination unspeakable over a set of teeth as fine as I 
have ever beheld. This pallor seemed for a time to be at war with 
the normal red flush of his cheeks, but they ultimately blended into 
that happy expression of calm determination indicative of the mas¬ 
tery of mind over matter. This point once reached, his face then 
became a study. It spoke of a consciousness of a victory won—a 
victory over self—and yet, not a word had parted those lips. When 
angry, his eyes became piercing and startling, and the rebuke they 
contained was crushing. Our grandfather never spoke when an¬ 
gered. No rasping words or high-handed insult could provoke him 
to speak until he had full control of himself. He took in this a chief 
pride and satisfaction. I think the mortification consequent from 
the loss of such a victory would have most deeply humiliated him. 
It was always after such a triumph he appeared most grand. To 
me he then seemed magnificent, and I never beheld a nobler type 


Bonnie Belmont. 


153 


of physical manhood and moral strength. No one could mistake 
the logical and irresistible force which would necessarily follow 
such deliberation. His judgment was always correct, fair and lib¬ 
eral, and he had no room in his soul for narrow or selfish thought. 
He was generous to a foe and liberal to a friend. He seemed to 
have inbred the typical Highland chivalry of his ancestral Scotland 
and he took a commendable pride in relating the heroic achieve¬ 
ments of the “Clan Campbell,” the most powerful in Scotland, from 
which he had sprung and through which he traced a long line of 
daring ancestry. He was cousin to Sir Thomas Cochran, tenth 
Earl of Dundonald. The family motto of this house is “Virtue et 
Lahore” (by virtue and labor), and he took a just pride in living up 
to it. The life and achievements of Sir Thomas Cochran, tenth 
Earl of Dundonald, formed altogether the most chivalrous and dar¬ 
ing naval character in the history of the whole British Empire. 
“We have come to ask you, grandfather,” I said, after Minerva and 
I had been seated, “if you will not relate to us the incidents con¬ 
nected with the killing of your father, William Cochran, by the In¬ 
dians at the time of the siege and battle of Fort Henry at Wheel¬ 
ing on the 11th of September, 1782. You were then a young man, 
I believe?” “Yes,” he replied, “that battle lasted until the morning 
of the 13th. I was then past twenty. My father—your great 
grandfather—was the most athletic man I ever knew, and was 
noted for being the swiftest runner on that part of the frontier. 
He was a good surveyor and had done some civil engineering. 
There was no better shot with the rifle, and in his pioneer life 
he became thoroughly conversant with the characteristics of Indian 
warfare. He was a good scout, and his fleetness of foot had saved 
him more than once from capture while on these perilous expedi¬ 
tions for the government forces. Louis Wetzel, with whom I was 
well acquainted, regarded him as one of the swiftest men 011 foot he 
had ever met, and Wetzel himself had never met his match at 
this. Father owned a tract of land near Forts Vanmeter and Shep¬ 
hard. At the time of the battle all the settlers, with their families, 
flocked to the forts. An attempt was made to reinforce Fort 
Henry, but it failed. Those at Forts Vanmeter, West Liberty and 
Shepherd feared the whole garrison at Wheeling had been mas¬ 
sacred and were desirous of learning their fate and of extending 
aid if it could be done. It was determined to send two scouts to 
ascertain, and father and “Billy” Boggs were selected. They made 


154 


Grandfather's Story. 


their way past father's farm, but had gone but a short distance when 
they encountered some forty Indians, a portion of the force which 
after the failure to capture the fort at Wheeling, had broken up 
into bands and were pillaging the whole country for a number of 
miles east of it. Father and Boggs each killed their Indian, and 
with empty guns started to run. The Indians attempted to sur¬ 
round them in order to capture them alive for the purpose of burn¬ 
ing at the stake. They had a particular desire to capture father, 
for they knew him as an intrepid hunter and a dangerous enemy. 
He was too swift for them and soon distanced their swiftest run¬ 
ners. Boggs and he had taken different directions in order to di¬ 
vide their force. Father had gained so rapidly on them he was soon 
out of gun shot, but he made the fatal mistake of attempting to go 
over a very steep projecting point instead of keeping along the creek 
and going around it. While he was climbing a very steep bank, 
they were running down hill on the other side across the stream 
and thus gained on him so as to bring him in shooting distance just 
as he was passing over the point and out of range. Had he kept 
down the stream and around the point they never could have over¬ 
taken him. But one shot of all those fired struck him, killing him 
instantly. They scalped him and his body was recovered and 
buried the next day. Boggs was captured, and when they subse¬ 
quently struck him in the face with the bloody scalp of your great 
grandfather, he knew what had been the fate of his companion. 
They shoved on quite rapidly to the Ohio river, crossing it at 
Mingo bottom, some six miles above Wheeling. When they ar¬ 
rived at the Ohio they stripped Boggs naked, and forming two lines 
face to face, made him run the gauntlet between these, beating him 
with switches and small clubs as he ran. Boggs knocked one of 
them down, broke through their ranks and jumped from a high 
bank into the Ohio river. He was a most expert swimmer, and 
struck out into and down the river with all his power. The Indians 
were taken completely by surprise, and ran for their guns, following 
down the river bank trying to shoot him as he rose to the surface 
occasionally for breath. It was growing dusk and he escaped, 
though the bullets came so close at times as to splash the water in 
his face. He turned up at the fort at Wheeling that night, bring¬ 
ing the first definite news as to what had become of the Indians.” 
After a further short talk with grandfather, we thanked him for the 
interview, bade him good-evening and returned to Minerva’s home. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


155 


The Abolitionists. 

T HE importation of negro slaves from Africa was first made in 
America by a Dutch ship at Jamestown, in August, 1619 
some of the colonies attempted by divers enactments to pro¬ 
hibit the traffic, but these were vetoed by their several governors, 
who were appointed by the Crown, and England, out of a spirit of 
gain and mercantile profit, forced slavery upon them. These slaves 
were captured from the wild, uncivilized tribes on the south coast 
of Africa, brought to America and sold, the trade at times becoming 
immensely profitable. The barbarous and inhuman treatment of 
these poor creatures in their capture and transportation by cruel, 
piratical captains and owners of vessels, was in many cases too ter¬ 
rible to relate. They were confined in overcrowded numbers in the 
holds of vessels, until many cargoes arrived depleted in numbers to 
less than one-half the original captives, from suffocation, starvation 
and lack of water. Notwithstanding the efforts of England and its 
capitalists to the contrary, the traffic was gradually dying out from 
over-production of these kind of laborers, augmented by a philan¬ 
thropic and more civilized sentiment rapidly growing in the north¬ 
ern states. By 1792 all the last named states had abolished the 
slave trade, and likewise slavery by gradual emancipation, and it 
was perceptibly dying out in the other states. But the cotton gin, 
invented by Eli Whitney in 1792, by which the preparation of cot¬ 
ton for market was enormously facilitated, produced not only a 
check to, but a wonderful revolution in this sentiment of emancipa¬ 
tion. The hungry maw of the money power had to be sated even 
at the sacrifice of advancing civilization, humanity, religion and de¬ 
cency. Under this “God of Gain,” the adherents of slavery, North 
and South, from first apologizing for it, began to defend it, and in 
the campaign of 1860 urged it as a Divine institution recognized by 
the Bible. As a consequence of the enormous profits arising from 
slavery and the slave trade after the invention of the cotton gin, the 
number of slaves increased in the United States from six hundred 
and ninety-eight thousand in 1790, to three million nine hundred 


The Arolitionists. 


156 

and fifty-four thousand in 1860. The United States became the cot¬ 
ton producer of the world, immense fortunes were rapidly built up, 
and the cotton planters of the South became nabobs of wealth, the 
like of which history to that date had scarcely furnished a parallel. 
In order to perpetuate this iniquity, they obtained a three-fifths rep¬ 
resentation for these slaves in making up the proportion of con¬ 
gressmen from their states, and secured the enactment of the fugi¬ 
tive slave law of 1850. The Society of Friends, commonly called 
Quakers, were the pioneer ‘'Abolitionists.” The Germantown 
Quakers drew up a memorial against slavery in 1688, and the Bos¬ 
ton town meeting in 1701. Woolman and other Quakers preached 
against it, and this sentiment was increasing at the time of the in¬ 
troduction of the cotton gin. From then until 1830, the cause of 
emancipation languished. The Missouri Compromise of 1820 pro¬ 
vided that the territory west of the Mississippi and north of latitude 
thirty-six degrees and thirty minutes, should not be open to slav¬ 
ery, except in the case of Missouri, then as a compromise measure 
admitted as a slave state. The Ordinance of 1787 had forbidden 
slavery northwest of the Ohio. The slave owners imperiously de¬ 
manded more new territory for their system, forced the annexation 
of Texas and the war with Mexico. This new territory was not 
only thrown open to slavery, but the Missouri compromise measure 
was repealed by the ‘‘Kansas-Nebraska act” of 1854, thereby ex¬ 
tending slavery in all the territories, and this repeal was sustained 
in the case of the slave, Dred Scott, by the Supreme Court of the 
United States rendered by Judge Taney, in which he proclaimed the 
doctrine, by announcing from the bench, that “a Negro has no 
rights which a white man is bound to respect.” In 1830 the Aboli¬ 
tion movement took on new life under the leadership of William 
Loyd Garrison, Wendell Phillips, John G. Whittier, Edmund 
Quincy, Samuel J. May, William Jay and others. In 1833 they 
formed the American Anti-Slavery Society. This society nomin¬ 
ated and presented candidates in the Presidential elections of 1840 
and 1844, under the name of the Liberty Party. These joined the 
Freesoilers in 1848, and the Republican party in 1856. From 1833 
to 1860 the abolition of slavery was fought with unremitting zeal 
and acrimonious discussion. In 1841 Horace Greeley issued the first 
number of the New York Tribune, which he edited and owned until 
his death. It was first Whig, then Anti-Slavery Whig, then Repub- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


157 


lican. It had employed upon its staff the most eminent men and 
writers of its day, advocated the most radical views on the slavery 
question, denounced the system as “a crime against humanity and a 
league with hell.” It for a time kept at the head of one of its most 
prominent columns this paraphrase of the National anthem: 

“The Star Spangled Banner, how long shall it wave 

O’er the land of the Thief and the home of the Slave?” 

It became the most popular and influential paper in America. 
The Democrats in power refused to permit it to go through the 
mails and subscribers were compelled to obtain it by express. 
Clubs were formed throughout the country and the Tribune was 
sent in large or small packages by express to certain points, and 
there distributed to the subscribers. I well remember when a boy 
of taking weekly turns with other neighbor boys in riding to the 
express office at Wheeling and Bridgeport for the Tribune and 
bringing it to the Tavern, and subsequently to the Tollgate, there 
to be distributed to the subscribers, Messrs. Joseph Chandler, Wil¬ 
liam Brown, Doctor Pratt, Jacob Davis, Isaac Ashton, our father 
and others, as a result of the despotism of the slave power than con¬ 
trolling the government. And yet these upright, law-abiding, phil¬ 
anthropic citizens and subscribers were contributing by taxation 
toward keeping up this very mail system which they were thus 
denied the use of. All honor to these noble Abolitionists. They 
were the kind of men of whom it hath been written, “the world was 
not worthy,” and their names will shine with resplendant glory 
through all history. In order that their names may be perpetuated 
and remembered with respect and veneration so far as I can con¬ 
tribute to that end, I give the names of a few Abolitionists as I re¬ 
call them. In Bridgeport and vicinity were John K. Newland, Rev. 
David Trueman, Hon. Thomas C. Theaker, Ebenezer Rhodes, Alex¬ 
ander Brannum, Wm. Alexander, Samuel Junkins, William Hollo¬ 
way, Joseph Chandler, William Brown, Jacob Davis, Doctor Dan¬ 
iel Pratt, Isaac Ashton and Mr. Patterson. Rev. Trueman presided 
at the first Methodist meeting held in Bellaire, Ohio. Pie was a 
strong, manly character and his book of poems evinces much liter¬ 
ary ability. To his daughter, Mrs. Mary Springer, I am deeply in¬ 
debted for timely aid in the production of this work. In Martins 


The Arolitionists. 


158 

Ferry and vicinity, Joel Wood, Benjamin Hoyle, Capt. Richard 
Crawford, Joseph Hargrave, Isaac Branson, Joseph Long, James 
Hammond, James Bane, Dr. William Millhouse, Elijah Woods, 
Ebenezer Martin, Jacob VanPelt, Joshua Steel, Isaac Parker and 
James H. Drennen were among the noted Abolitionists. This 
last named was one of the most fearless and outspoken, a man of 
education and ability, with persuasive, argumentative qualities and 
a man of influence. He was one of the most epigramatic, incisive 
talkers and writers of which I have knowledge. He owned and 
edited the “Ohio Valley News” until his death in 1896, and was fa¬ 
ther of Lycurgus J. C. and Eugene J. A. Drennen, attorneys-at-law, 
and grandfather to the Robinson brothers, the present owners of 
that paper. In the vicinity of Colerain and Mt. Pleasant were 
Joshua Cope, Joshua Maule, Dr. Caleb Cope, Charles Wright, Dr. 
Caleb Bracken, Elasha Bracken, William Millhouse, Nathan Star- 
buck, Jacob Fox, Isaac Vickers, Isaac Loyd, Elwood Radcliff, Hon. 
Jonathan Updegraff, Rev. David Updegrafif, Solomon Bracken, Dr. 
Benjamin Mitchell, Kenworthy Hoge, William Sharon, Ellis Dun- 
gan, Isaac White, Charles Wright, the Theakers and others. Of 
course, it goes without saying, all the “Friends” were Abolitionists. 
Among the homes of those Abolitionists, most noted as Under¬ 
ground stations, were those of Joel Wood, in Martins Ferry; Jacob 
VanPelt, on the hill overlooking that city; Joshua Cope, at the 
head of Glens run; Charles Wright (subsequently the Elisha 
Bracken stone and frame house near Jobetown) ; William Mill- 
house, just northwest of Colerain; Isaac Vickers, some three miles 
east of Mt. Pleasant on the pike; Isaac Loyd, on Little Short 
Creek, and Rev. Benjamin Mitchell, just east of Mt. Pleasant. Wil¬ 
liam Robinson’s house at Trenton was the next station cn the State 
road after leaving that of William Millhouse. This last named 
mansion had in the lower story, by the side of the large projecting 
chimney, a deep clothes press reaching but little higher than the 
head. Boards tightly nailed in. formed the top of the press and 
from there to the ceiling it was lathed and plastered. In the room 
above and immediately over this press, the flooring was movable, 
and when open, exposed a small recess in which two or three persons 
could sit, and was ventilated by a few auger holes from the out¬ 
side. When the flooring was replaced, a carpet on the floor cov¬ 
ered it, and on top of this was placed a large, broad, old-fashioned 



James H. Drennen 

Abolitionist, and Founder of ‘‘The Ohio Valley News.” 







Bonnie Belmont. 


159 


bureau. At one time a party in pursuit of a runaway slave, sur¬ 
rounded the Charles Wright (now Linley Bracken) house, and 
demanded the right to search it. This was refused by Wright until 
they should secure and produce a search warrant, which they had 
to do by one of the parties going more than a mile to a Justice of 
the Peace. This took up considerable time and in the meantime 
the fugitive, who was really not at the Wright mansion, was taken 
to the Millhouse place of concealment, the searching party was di¬ 
rected to Mt. Pleasant, and it is needless to say they never found 
their property. To the slave-hunters, when a fugitive once reached 
Mt. Pleasant, the language over the prison tower seemed most ap¬ 
propriate : 

“Who Enters Here Leaves Hope Behind.” 

To a fugitive, after leaving Mt. Pleasant, Oberlin, Ohio, was 
the Mecca of all hope, though, of course, many friendly stations 
intervened. The people of this little town and vicinity were in¬ 
tensely anti-slavery, and no slave reaching it was ever permit¬ 
ted to be returned to bondage. An attempt was at one time made 
by a slave owner to recapture his slave there and he was not only 
compelled to abandon it, but barely escaped with his life. In this 
instance a Congressman led the rescuers. They had and still have 
fine schools at Oberlin, to which the colored people were freely 
admitted, and many fine colored teachers, doctors, lawyers and 
scholars have been turned out from its educational institutions. 


i6o 


My Martins Ferry School Days. 


My Martins Ferry School Days. 

M Y early struggles for an education were somewhat discour¬ 
aging. After going as far as I could in the country school 
I attended the High School at Martins Ferry, about two 
miles from our home over the hills. The walks on some occasions 
were quite laborious. As my services were needed on the farm, I 
was compelled to work there in the summer and fall. Vv hen I re¬ 
turned to school in the winter, I would start in with my old 
classes, and also carry up my studies from where I had left off at 
the close of the winter before. This gave me double duty, and 
with the long walks, was quite hard on me, but through the aid of 
my teacher, who extended a most kindly assistance, and my good 
classmates, whom I today remember and love with ineffable tender¬ 
ness, I ultimately pulled through. Their faces appear to me now 
as they did then, though I have seen but few of them for many a day 
and many are dead. There were the Misses Mary M. Newland, 
Jennie Millhouse, Eliza Park, Lizzie Alexander, Martha Griffith, 
Mary and Nannie Eagleson, Carrie Wood, Jennie Bone, Mary Mc¬ 
Cord, Nettie Rice, Sarah Wood, Emma Fisher and Rachel Hoyle. 
Of the male classmates there were Eb. Woods, Charles Wood, 
John Park, David Wagner, Alfred Bell, Eugene Rice and James 
VanPelt. Dear John Park lost his life in my regiment at the battle 
of Stone River, fighting for his country and the rights of the op¬ 
pressed. There is a crown of righteousness for him. To Superin¬ 
tendents Sharpless, Kirk, Laird, Wheeler and Shreve, the Martins 
Ferry schools can point with pride, but to the twenty-nine years 
of unremitting toil and matchless work of Charles R. Shreve be¬ 
longs the meed of praise for bringing them to their highest degree 
of excellence. No man, or citizen, has so decidedly stamped his 
sterling integrity and intellectuality of character on the present 
citizenship of Martins Ferry. They are not likely to have his equal. 
To Mrs. C. R. Shreve, Miss Mattie Dakin and Miss Sarah Coffin, 
High School teachers, I am deeply indebted for their remarkable 
kindness and voluntary toil in aiding me to keep up with my classes 
under such adverse circumstances. At the time of the administra¬ 
tions of these schools under Mr. Wheeler and Miss Dakin, a literary 



Bonnie Belmont. 


161 


society was formed and conducted in the High school room which 
obtained a wide reputation. Much literary and educational talent 
belonged to the society and participated in its meetings from 
Wheeling, Martins Ferry, Bridgeport and Mt. Pleasant, many of 
the members being ministers, lawyers, doctors, professors, teachers 
and business men. The meetings were held every two weeks and a 
paper was read each evening by a lady and gentleman as editors, 
who were appointed at the meeting preceding, any one having the 
privilege of contributing. On one occasion Miss Kate Martin, a 
grand-daughter of the heroic and remarkable Elizabeth Zane, with 
our brother Robert, were the editors. Miss Martin had the pic¬ 
ture of a thistle drawn on the outside of her paper with the motto, 
“The Thistle,” in large letters in crescent shape around and over 
the thistle. On arising to read, she exposed these to the full view 
of the audience, saying, “The Thistle, and I presume the audience 
will' immediately recognize its provender by the above appropriate 
title.” As nothing but a donkey will eat thistles, the joke was, of 
course, upon the audience, which evidently enjoyed it quite as much 
as the editress, judging from the applause. The Mountain View 
Literary Society at Blackford’s schoolhouse, about one mile west of 
the Tavern, organized in the early fifties and which lasted until 
some time after the war of ’61, was a'medium of much literary and 
forensic culture to the whole vicinity. Other societies of like na¬ 
ture were organized and continued with similar success at Farming- 
ton, Steels and other places. Some fine debaters and speakers were 
turned out from these societies. Of those at Farmington, Corwin 
and Charles Dungan, Dr. Isaac and Captain Alexis Cope and Syl¬ 
vester Brown were among the best. At Steels, L. J. C. Drennen, 
E. J. A. Drennen, M. C. Mitchell, Wesley Steel and Nelson Theaker 
were the champions. At Blackford’s, R. H. - Cochran, John Brown, 
Joseph Swindler, Alexander McBridge, Oliver Griffith, Reuben K. 
Ashton, George Ashton, Chas. B. Chandler, John Smith and James 
VanPelt w r ere the most formidable. Farmington and Steels pro¬ 
duced two lawyers each and Blackford’s four lawyers and two 
judges. Some very hotly contested challenge debates took place 
at times between these societies, and friendly associations and at¬ 
tachments were formed thereby which have lasted through life, and 
are affectionately treasured by all to this day. Mrs. Sarah F. Pratt, 
wife of Doctor Daniel Pratt, was our first secretary at the Mountain 


162 My Martins Ferry School Days. 

View Literary Society, and much is due to this intellectual lady in 
its initiation and organization. Isaac Ashton, Joseph Chandler and 
Robert Blackford were mainly its presidents, the former serving 
faithfully and efficiently for many years. Our sister Lucelia and 
Miss Narcissa Nelan were likewise secretaries, but Miss M. A. 
Pratt was the long and faithful servant in this capacity. 

The old State Road, subsequently the plank road, and now the 
pike, is an undulating way of pleasing and varying scenery from 
Blackford’s schoolhouse to the Tavern. It is just such a road along 
which lovers would desire to saunter on a moonlight night; and 
many improved the opportunity, especially on the nights of the 
literary meetings. Jack’s strolls with Minerva along this road to 
and from these meetings, were, I imagine, among the most pleas¬ 
ant of their lives. The doctrine of “Squatter Sovereignty” had 
become a burning question, and both North and South became 
fiercely aroused over the further extension of slavery in the Terri¬ 
tories. In the contest between Buchanan and Fremont for the 
Presidency in 1856, the Republican party had shown a sudden 
growth and surprising strength, greatly alarming and enraging the 
slave owners of the South. An attempt was made in that campaign 
by the Republicans to hold a meeting on the wharf in Wheeling, to 
be addressed by Hon. Thomas C. Theaker, of Bridgeport, Ohio. 
This meeting was mobbed and broken up, and Theaker barely es¬ 
caped across the river with his life. A marching club of about two 
hundred Republicans from Pittsburg was also assaulted in the 
streets of Wheeling with volleys of stones. Four years later, in the 
Lincoln campaign, the Pittsburg Republicans, remembering the 
treatment they had received before, sent a delegation of two thous¬ 
and “Wide Awakes” to Wheeling, armed and prepared to defend 
themselves. I never saw a finer looking body of men. They pa¬ 
raded the streets of Wheeling with their torches and shining glazed 
caps and capes without molestation until on their return to Bridge¬ 
port to take the Cleveland and Pittsburg train for home, they were 
attacked at the east end of the Suspension bridge as the rear of their 
column was filing on the bridge, by a mob which had formed and 
lain in wait at the north end of the market house. The column of 
“Wide Awakes” faced about and soon made short work of the mob, 
driving many of them clear over the hill. A dozen or more of the 
mob were knocked down and their lives almost beaten and trampled 
out of them on the same spot where I had witnessed the auction 


Bonnie Belmont. 


163 

block and sale nearly eight years before. As I view it now, it 
appears as not only the beginning of retributive justice, but as one 
of the expiring gasps of American slavery. In this fight a cobble¬ 
stone flew past my head and spent its force on the iron gate of the 
bridge. In the Lincoln campaign, Cassius M. Clay, of Kentucky, 
was booked by the Republicans to make a Republican speech in 
Wheeling. The committee received notice that if he attempted to 
speak he would be mobbed. On the evening of the meeting, Clay, 
who was a tall, powerfully built man, stepped upon the platform, 
deposited the Constitution of the United States, two revolvers and a 
dirk knife upon the table in full view of the audience, and calmly 
and deliberately said: “I am a native born American citizen. I 
have come here tonight to talk to you 011 the issues of this cam¬ 
paign. I have been notified if I did I would be killed. I learn that 
another Republican speaker has been mobbed in this city hereto¬ 
fore and the meeting broken up. There is the Constitution of the 
United States which guarantees the right of free speech. I intend 
to exercise that right tonight, and there are the instruments with 
which I intend to enforce and protect that right.” The effect was 
magical. He made a most powerful and fearless speech and was 
not interrupted once. It was well known that Clay was a danger¬ 
ous man to trifle with, as they had attempted to mob him in Ken¬ 
tucky and the ruffian who had been selected to kill Clay in the 
melee, was literally cut to pieces by Clay and died a few minutes 
thereafter. After that Clay spoke where he pleased in Kentucky. 
He was a nephew of the illustrious Henry Clay, and a man of most 
remarkable nerve. It was the last political mob ever attempted in 
Wheeling. Too much honor cannot be given to Archie W. Campbell, 
the splendid founder and intrepid, intellectual editor of the Wheel¬ 
ing Intelligencer, and a few other original Abolitionists, such as 
John Frew, E. M. Norton, Thomas Flornbrook, Jacob Hornbrook, 
S. H. Woodward, Wm. P. McKelvey, William Bailey, Isaac C. M. 
Pumphrey, Dr. James Thoburn, J. G. Jacob, Captain Richard 
Crawford and a few others in Wheeling and vicinity, who, taking 
their lives in their hands, stood up for emancipation and freedom, 
and who aided Campbell in those dark and dangerous hours of the 
throes of slavery. He is altogether the greatest man the .State of 
West Virginia has yet produced. His name should be honored by 
2 . graceful and befitting monument erected by its people in the City 
of Wheeling, and his statue should be placed in the Capitol at 
Washington as the Father of the State. 


164 


The Debate. 


The Debate. 

I T is singular how a great reform movement will, by a kind of 
spontaneous impulse, act upon and control the hearts of the 
people. “Squatter Soverignty” and the abolition of slavery 
were upon every one’s lips. “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” was more uni¬ 
versally read and discussed than the Bible. An opposition book 
entitled, “The Planter’s Northern Bride,” was exploited, and while 
it was attractive, well written, and showed the agreeable and capti- 
vating side of plantation life and the humane side of slavery, yet 
Uncle Tom’s Cabin swept everything before it like an irresistible 
flood tide. In the family homes, in the fields of the farm, on the 
streets, in the operas, in shows, at entertainments, on the wharfs, 
on steamboats, in the workshops, and in fact everywhere, could 
be heard, day and night, such songs as “Suwanee River,” “Nellie 
Gray,” “Poor Old Slave,” “Massa’s In the Cold, Cold Ground,” 
and kindred slave melodies. At the Mountain View Literary 
Society on the evening of the challenge debate, the question for 
discussion, “Squatter Sovereignty Should Not Obtain in the Terri¬ 
tories,” was placed in the negative form in order to give the anti¬ 
slavery advocates the opening and close. On the evening of the 
debate, the school-house could not hold the audience, but the balmy 
evening, with the windows thrown open, measurably afforded an 
opportunity for all to hear. The beautiful weather, Saturday even¬ 
ing, and the exciting political times did more to contribute to this 
than probably anything else. Of course, the debaters were the 
ones to be sacrificed for the general amusement, so we meekly sub¬ 
mitted and played our part. The affirmative took strong ground 
against all slavery, declaring the whole system wrong and un¬ 
authorized under the laws of God, contrary to our own bill of rights 
and the Constitution, subversive of true government, oppressive to 
the week and poor, and baleful from economic considerations. The 
defense claimed this was begging the question, or avoiding it. 
That the institution of slavery was already established by the 
organic law of the Nation. That the question was not as to the 
wisdom, or lack of it, of this institution as such, but as to whether, 
when once established, the people of the several Territories had 


Bonnie Belmont. 


165 

the exclusive right to decide the feasibility of adopting this as a 
domestic regulation or utility, in their respective Territories, or 
whether the people of the whole country should decide this do¬ 
mestic and home institution for them. That this was particularly 
and exclusively a State or Territorial question to be determined 
by the citizens thereof. That the people of the whole Nation by 
act of Congress might as consistently attempt to say one State 
should raise hogs and nothing else, and no other State should; 
another corn, cattle, or hay. The affirmative rejoined, that it was 
not exclusively a domestic institution, as its harmful results were 
affecting the whole Nation, was against the dictates of conscience, 
retarding spiritual, moral, physical and commercial progress, 
trampling on the God-given rights of four million human beings, 
and that these were vital matters in which the whole Nation was 
interested, should have the power to regulate, or check, and should 
not be delegated to an interested fraction of the people, even 
though done by ballot. Of course, this is but a short epitome, pro 
and con, of the arguments and they at times became animated and 
even heated. The decision was in favor of the affirmative; and 
though against me, I was glad of it for the effect it would have on 
the young, and the momentous issues then rapidly culminating. 
We little know we are making history sometimes when we are 
doing it quite rapidly. After the debate and the sentimental dis¬ 
cussion, we all went home with more knowledge and better formed 
ideas of “Squatter Sovereignty.” I think no one could attend such 
discussions as we at times had at those literary societies without 
regarding them as desirable mediums of culture in a community. 
Minerva was the first to congratulate me, and while I felt I de¬ 
served it least of any of the speakers, yet it gave me untold com¬ 
fort, for it impressed me she desired to make me feel good whether 
I did or not. As we were exchanging the usual neighborly greet¬ 
ings and short social chats after the discussion and before adjourn¬ 
ment, a lady friend quietly remarked to Jack, “I overheard some¬ 
thing just now which may be of interest to you. That young 
gentleman from Bridgeport requested the privilege to accompany 
Miss Minerva home this evening, and she replied, T am very 
thankful, sir, but I rather expect other company.’ Did you ever 
hear anything so politely cool? You must not disappoint her 
now.” “I certainly shall not, the disappointment will rather be 


The Debate. 


166 

to me if I do not have the pleasure of her company. I am ever so 
much obliged to you for so kindly mentioning it,” Jack replied. 
‘‘May I have the pleasure of walking home with you?” Jack said, 
turning to Minerva, with a smile. “Certainly,” she replied as she 
looked at him quizically. On their road home Jack remarked, 
“So you had another opportunity of other and more polished com¬ 
pany than that of your humble servant this evening?” “I fear I 
do not comprehend you,” said Minerva. “Well,” he rejoined, to 
put it differently, “the young gentleman from the city seems to 
have forgotten your first lesson given him at the apple-paring?” 
“How in the world did you find that out?” she rejoined. “Oh, I 
have been taking on a little of the mystical divination of the Gypsy 
Queen since our ride to Mt. Pleasant,” he retorted. “Well,” she 
said laughingly, “the joke would certainly have been seriously on 
me had you not come to my rescue, for someone must have over¬ 
heard our conversation when I told him I was expecting company. 
Would it not have been a good joke on me now, had you not asked 
me? Seriously, do you not think I run some great risks in my 
faith in you at times?” “You are certainly aware that you enjoy a 
happy immunity from any such risk, do you not?” Jack asked. 
“There, now, you are placing me in the attitude of a confessional 
again by that question, and I think I shall not answer it,” she re¬ 
plied. “But, really and confidentially, I do so dislike that fellow’s 
abounding supererrogation. I think I take a real gratification in 
cutting his supercilious pride and self-admiration. He certainly 
needs it from some one.” On their way home Minerva informed 
Jack she started in a few days to attend school at the Female Sem¬ 
inary at Steubenville. Before going, they enjoyed one of their 
delightful moonlight rides to her sister’s, and beyond to the Stone 
House, where I was born, on what was once our grandfather’s 
farm, near Joel Walker’s, now the Annie Litton farm. Minerva’s 
absence brought a great sense of loneliness to Jack, for, though 
not far away, the pupils of her seminary were not permitted male 
visitors. However, hard work at the Martins Ferry school in 
winter and his duties on the farm in summer kept Jack quite busy, 
and an occasional letter from her tended to make his condition 
measurably tolerable, and the time wore wearily on. They en¬ 
joyed two delightful vacations which she spent at home during 
the year. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


167 


“Mose.” 

I N due time,after his departure from Wheeling, Mose arrived at 
the large sugar plantation of Mr. Copeland in Louisiana, 
about sixty miles north of New Orleans, on the Mississippi 
River. In the eight years intervening, he had served his new 
master faithfully and well. By his industrious, patient, kindly dis¬ 
position and obliging politeness of manners, he had become the 
favorite of both Mr. and Mrs. Copeland and was retained mainly 
at the mansion house as the body servant of both. Much of the 
affairs and details of the plantation was entrusted to him with 
entire confidence, which he never abused. If he ever had any 
longings to be free, or desire to see Aunt Tilda and Lucinda, he 
never made them manifest. He seemed to be patiently, obligingly, 
laboring out his days for the comfort of others. He was much 
liked by all the other slaves and when any of them desired a favor 
from their master or mistress they were sure to first appeal to 
Mose. Mr. and Mrs. Copeland were very much attached to him, 
and when Mose told them anything was true they knew it was so. 
Mr. Copeland was a prosperous sugar planter. In addition to 
the very large plantation on which he resided, he had two 
others about seventy-five miles further up the river, one of which 
he had given to his son, properly stocked with slaves, mules and 
farming implements. The raising of sugar cane and the manu¬ 
facture of sugar and molasses therefrom is quite laborious. Cope¬ 
land had about ninety negroes on his home plantation and a third as 
many mules, beside his riding and driving horses. In planting 
sugar cane, deep furrows (made by running the plow at least three 
times in the same furrow) are placed from six to seven feet aparL 
Two sugar cane stalks, with their joints alternating, placed 
side by side in the bottoms of these furrows throughout their 
whole lengths and are covered with soil for a few inches. From 
each of these joints spring sprouts of the cane, and the earth is 
filled in as they grow, until the surface of the whole field becomes 


Mose. 


i 68 


level. This is ordinarily done in the late fall. In the spring a 
row of corn is planted midway between these cane rows which is 
cultivated with the cane, and thereby a sufficiency of corn is raised 
to supply the negroes with bread and the mules with feed. On one 
occasion Copeland having sent a portion of his force to the planta¬ 
tion up the river, the services of Mose were required in the field. 
Copeland had just previously secured the services of a new mana¬ 
ger, or “slave driver,” as they were then called. He was a small 
man, cruel, and desirous of showing his authority. Coming out 
to the field sometime after the plowing of the cane and corn had 
begun in the morning, and looking over the work, he cried out in 
the most peremptory manner, “Some one of you niggers has missed 
a row here. Who did it? They each and all disclaimed having 
done so. “It’s just the way with you lying niggers. I’ll bet I’ll 
not be here a week before I whip every nigger on this plantation. 
Now the next time a row is missed Til whip every last nigger 
in the field and then I’ll be certain to get the right one. Now you 
can depend on this as certain as I say it, so watch out what you 
do.” After having been gone to another portion of the planta¬ 
tion for a while, he returned and looking over the subsequent 
work, cried out: “Another row missed here. Stop every one of 
them mules ’til I give each of you a flogging.” The teams were 
stopped and he made each slave in the gang bend his body over 
and run his head between the overseer’s legs, when the latter then 
closed them tightly around the neck of the unfortunate negro, and 
used the “cat-o’-nine-tails” with brutal severity on his hips. He 
went the round in this way until he came to Mose. “Get down 
here, Mose,” said he. “No, sah, I didn’t miss dat row, sah,” said 
Mose. “Get down here, you nigger, and I’ll give you a double 
dose.” “No, sah, I didn’t miss dat row, sah. I’s not gwine to git 
down.” The overseer made a rush and struck at Mose with the 
loaded end of his whip. Mose adroitly warded it off, and it was 
well he did, for had it reached the objective point it would have 
broken his skull. Mose was a most powerful negro, and quick as a 
flash he grasped the overseer, raised him above his head as though 

o 

he were a child and dashed him with great violence upon the 
ground, knocking the breath out of him and rendering him sense¬ 
less for a time. Mose then sprang on the saddle horse of the 
overseer and riding with all speed to the house, related the whole 


Bonnie Belmont. 


169 

affair to his master and mistress. When he had finished, Copeland 
said: “Now, Mose, answer me this question and answer me 
truthfully, for you know your life depends on it. You know it is 
against the criminal law of this State for a slave to strike a master 
01 overseer, you can be tried and executed for it, and even I could 
not save you. Now, did you strike him, or attempt to strike him?” 
“No, sah,” said Mose, “I swear to de good Lo’d I nevva strike him 
nor attempt to strike him. I dis take him up in my hands an’ 
slam him down on de ground hard and den jis’ run’d away, f 
swear to de mighty Lo’d, Massa Copeland, dat’s all I did.” “That’s 
all right, Mose, now saddle my horse, put my two revolvers in the 
holsters and mount that horse again and follow me to the field.” 
They rode rapidly back and found the overseer still in a half-dazed 
condition, with the negroes doggedly and sullenly working close 
by. When Copeland appeared upon the scene a look of relief and 
satisfaction came over the faces of the slaves. “All of you boys 
come up here,” said Copeland, as he rode up close to the overseer. 
“Now, Mose, I desire you to state fully what took place here this 
morning, and I want each of you boys to listen. Tell it all and tell 
it truthfully, leaving nothing out.” Mose related it in his simple 
way. “Now,” said Copeland, turning to the other slaves, is this 
true or not?” They all corroborated what had been stated. “Now, 
what have you to say?” demanded Copeland, as he turned to the 
overseer. “I do not deny it in the main, sir,” replied the overseer, 
“some one missed a row and I was desirous of furthering your 
interests by finding out who did it. But let me say, sir, you are 
the very first slave owner I have ever met who calls his niggers 
as witnesses against a white man.” “It was your duty,” replied 
Copeland, “to be here and observe who missed the row, if any 
was missed. This is one of the things which I employed you for. 
If you are as anxious to subserve my interests as you claim, you 
will not begin an indiscriminate, brutal punishment on my boys 
the very first day you are here. I discover I have employed the 
wrong man, sir. I am sure you would break up any planter in 
this Mississippi valley by such conduct. I try to be kind to my 
boys and treat them right. I have paid you your first month’s 
wages, sir, but you may keep it. You are now discharged from any 
further services on this plantation and may go at once.” The over¬ 
seer walked off and the negroes resumed their work with cheerful 


170 


Mose. 


looks. Copeland rode slowly along the rows, inspecting them, 
and returned to the house. 

The sugar planters of the great Mississippi valley lived in regal 
plenty. They ordinarily realized sufficient from the molasses made 
from the sugar drippings, and the corn and vegetable crops combined, 
to pay all expenses, thereby having the sugar crop, which was vastly 
more valuable, all clear gain. On some plantations the sugar alone 
would often amount to as high as fifty thousand dollars in a single year. 
Many of these yearly crops were gambled away in New Orleans, or 
Paris, and the planter often came home without a cent. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


171 


Scenes on a Mississippi Steamer. 

O NE morning early, Copeland’s son stepped into his father’s 
house and with blanched face said: “Father, I am 
financially ruined. I am not worth one dollar in the world. 
I have been gambling at poker down there on the boat with a fellow 
since we left New Orleans. It has stopped here for a few minutes 
to see if I can make a raise. He first got what loose money I had, 
some three thousand dollars, next he got my plantation, and lastly, 
all my slaves and personal property on the farm. Once I thought 
I had him. But I never had such hard luck in my life. He is a 
slick one, but I think he plays fair. Fie is from Mississippi, is 
going on up to St. Louis, and will stop off to have me turn over the 
plantation to him. Now what can you do for me?” 

“I’ve told you more than once,” replied Copeland, “you do not 
know how to gamble and should quit it. Because you have seen 
me successful at it, is no reason why you should imagine you can 
do the same. Here, Mose, bring out the carriage and drive us 
down to the boat and tell your mistress I’ll not be back for a day 
or so.” It was but a few hundred yards to the wharf, and as they 
entered the cabin of the fine steamer young Copeland said: “This 
is Mr. Maxwell, father, permit me to introduce him. My father, 
Mr. Maxwell.” “I have met your father before,” said Maxwell, 
with an ironical emphasis and a stiff bow. “Yes, Mr. Maxwell and 
I are old friends and agreed when last we parted to meet again 
lower down the river,” said Copeland quite as ironically. “By the 
way,” he continued, “I learn you have been quite successful at cards 
in the last few hours? Will you acommodate me with a game at 
poker, sir?” “Most gladly,” said Maxwell, “especially as my luck 
is on now.” If the latter desired to unnerve Copeland by this re¬ 
mark he was mistaken, and he quickly realized he had a cool and 
most deliberate antagonist. A knowledge of this fact really made 
him less formidable in his own estimation and destroyed his self- 
confidence. Maxwell was a most skillful player, however, and his 


172 


Scene on a Mississippi Steamer. 


successive winnings for the first few games gave him renewed, not 
to say reckless, confidence. Copeland was losing heavily and every 
time doubled the bets. Copeland’s coolness under these losses 
astonished and perplexed Maxwell and won the sympathy and ad¬ 
miration of the bystanders. Copeland’s son grew pale with despair 
at the evident calamity he was bringing on his father. He loved 
his parent dearly, not only for the kindness he had always shown 
him, but for his true manly dignity and honor. As the boat passed 
gracefully up the stream the game became most exciting, though 
apparently the least concerned of all were the two quiet, determined 
men at the cards. The table was surrounded by an intensely inter¬ 
ested crowd of planters, speculators and travelers, many of whom 
were skilled in the game of poker, the prevailing gambling game of 
the day. Some were more or less excited, which increased with 
the magnitude of the amount involved. One planter nervously mo¬ 
tioned a friend to one side, and in a whisper conversed with him 
in an excited manner, evidently over the game. Maxwell was win¬ 
ning every time, and it was evident the run of luck was either won¬ 
derfully phenomenal, or that something was wrong. Maxwell was 
all aglow with victory, while the face of Copeland retained the same 
astonishing, imperturable coolness. When the next game was 
taken by Maxwell, Copeland called for a new deck of cards. This 
immediately arrested the attention of the two men talking in a 
whisper and they returned to the table. “Why do you demand a 
change of cards?” demanded Maxwell. “It is not necessary to state 
my reason, it is a right I have under certain circumstances and I 
now demand it,” said Copeland. 

“Here are two decks of fine French cards of slightly different 
variety,” said the clerk, producing them. Copeland thanked him 
and dealt the cards. “I will bet you five thousand dollars,” said 
Maxwell after looking at his hand. “I will make it ten,” said Cope¬ 
land. “I will go you ten more and make it twenty thousand,” re¬ 
turned Maxwell. The excitement was becoming intense as the 
spectators gathered around the table. All eyes were turned upon 
Copeland as he deliberately meditated for a few seconds, a thin®- 

' o 

he had done so frequently before just previous to calling his oppon¬ 
ent’s hand. “We will add an additional ten thousand and make it 
thirty,” rejoined Copeland, which seemed to disappoint Maxwell 
and send a thrill of anxiety through the onlookers. For a moment 


Bonnie Belmont. 


173 

Maxwell hesitated. It was the first time he had done so. It was 
but a moment, however, and with wonderful nerve he coolly said, 
“Make it forty thousand.” Every eye was turned upon Copeland 
with anxious look. He seemed to have their sympathies, and they 
feared he would rise from the table a ruined man as had his son 
from his contest with Maxwell during the night before. Maxwell 
was recognized as the most skillful gambler in the whole 
valley. During the games he had taken two small drinks, but 
Copeland had not touched a drop. In fact, his whole attention had 
been centered upon Maxwell and the game. Copeland now hesi¬ 
tated longer than usual. Finally he said, “I will go you fifty thous¬ 
and.” Maxwell flushed with disappointment and apparent anger. 
He fully expected Copeland to give up the game at his last bet. 
For a moment he seemed nonplussed. However, his remarkable 
nerve came to his aid and he said: “You over-size my ready avail¬ 
able cash, sir, but if you will allow me to stake your son’s planta¬ 
tion and personal property belongings which I have just won from 
him, at fifty thousand dollars, making the whole bet one hundred 
thousand, I will do so and call you.” “I will do it,” said Copeland 
promptly, as he threw down a royal flush and quickly swept the 
money and collaterals into his pocket. Maxwell showed a straight 
flush with the king at the head. He was astounded at the result 
and his face filled with anger. As Maxwell threw down his hand, 
a bvstander excitedly exclaimed, “Did you ever see such hands! I 
tell you he was close after him !” “He was not close after me,” 
said Copeland. “He would not have had a straight flush had he not 
used one of the cards you will find up his right coat sleeve attached 
to a rubber string. He is a scoundrel, and this is not the first time 
T have told him so.” “No, but I now say to you it will be the last 
time, Copeland, and you and T will settle that old account here and 
now,” said Maxwell in a great rage, as with a flashing dagger in 
his right hand he attempted to get at Copeland around the table, 
while the bystanders quickly scattered. The sharp report of a re¬ 
volver rang out and reverberated around the cabin, the half-raised 
arm of Maxwell dropped to his side and the dagger fell from his 
nerveless grasp upon the floor from a bullet which entered the 
knuckles, plowed along the muscles of the arm and entered the 
shoulder. Maxwell, half shocked, attempted to draw a revolver 
with his left hand, but before he could do so, Copeland struck him 


i 74 


Scene on a Mississippi Steamer. 


a fearful blow on the bared skull with his revolver and laid him 
senseless on the floor. Then coolly taking the revolver from Max¬ 
well’s prostrate form and placing it in his pocket, he pulled up the 
sleeve of his bleeding arm, exposing to the view of all present two 
pairs of cards, fastened, as he had stated, with rubber strings which 
quickly jerked them out of sight when not in use. “I noticed this 
early in the game,” said Copeland, “and intended calling him on it 
at the proper time. When I changed the cards on him he could 
not use them so successfully, but even in the last game he had the 
audacity to use one of them, the king, although you will observe 
they are not the same size and do not look quite alike.” “You are 
entirely right,” said one of the gentlemen who had been conversing 
aside during the game. “My friend and I here discovered the trick 
while you were playing, and consulted together as to whether we 
should expose the whole matter then, or wait until the games were 
ended. You served him just right, and this is the judgment of all 
of us.” Copeland lighted a cigar and leisurely walked to the upper 
deck to get the fresh air. Maxwell was seriously hurt, and was 
taken off at the first town for medical treatment. When they went 
ashore at his son’s plantation, Copeland quietly said: “Now, there 
are your plantation and negroes again. I give them all back 
to you on one condition, that is, that you eschew gambling from 
this time and forever. Until you do, you can regard them as my 
property. You have caused me to break a resolution of my own 
today, which I had solemnly formed and promised your mother 
some years ago, namely, never to gamble at cards again. You 
have seen today, how very nearly the violation of this resolution 
has resulted, not only disastrously but fatally. You will need some 
change and I here give you five thousand dollars, and would like 
you to now join me in a resolution to quiff gambling.” He grasped 
his father cordially and affectionately by the hand and for the first 
time in his life promised him. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


175 


At College, 

A FTER enjoying with Minerva, my friends, Jack Salisbury, 
Charlie Chandler and James VanPelt, their summer vaca¬ 
tions, of which the memories of many pleasant hours are 
still cherished, we all bade each other adieu, they returning to their 
studies of a year’s duration and I starting on my first year at Ober- 
lin College. My time there was fraught with but little of moment, 
except that I pursued my studies with great industry, feeling the 
importance of getting on as speedily as possible, as I was rapidly 
drawing toward manhood, only three years separating me from 
my majority. Just before my college year closed, the Civil war 
burst upon the country like a thunder clap. Few could realize it 
for a time even after it had actually come, and many seemed in a 
dazed condition for months after. The North had presumed that 
the oft-repeated threats of the.people of the slave-holding states 
were mere idle braggadocia. The South, through its leading men 
in and out of Congress, as well as their newspapers, had declared 
if Abraham Lincoln should be elected President they would secede. 
President Buchanan permitted his Secretary of War, Mr. FI 03 M, to 
move approximately all the arms, munitions and supplies of war 
into the Southern states and when the struggle came the South was 
prepared, while the government at Washington was absolutely un¬ 
prepared, and almost defenceless. For the last month or so of my 
year I became decidedly restless and ill at ease. President Lincoln 
had called for seventy-five thousand troops, which was soon fol¬ 
lowed by a call of three hundred thousand more. The colleges and 
schools all over the country were being closed from enlistments by 
the students. A spirit of patriotism had seized upon the country 
and was sweeping everything before it like an avalanche. Whole 
farms were stripped of all male help and crops remained ungath¬ 
ered. The young and middle-aged men came pouring into the 
towns and cities from the country to enlist, like the old clans of 
Scotland when notified to come on penalty of “fire and sword.” A 


At College. 


176 

company was asked for from Martins Ferry in the morning and at 
five o’clock in the evening a reply was sent that the company was ready. 
This was but a sample of how the whole North was moving to the 
rescue of the nation, after the flag had been fired upon at Fort 
Sumpter. The South was apparently no less actice, and had al¬ 
ready seized many places of military vantage, forcing their lines as 
far north as possible. But when the North did arise from her 
apathy, she was like a mighty monster shaking itself for battle. 
The favorite song and slogan of the day was: 

“We’re coming, Father Abraham, 

Six hundred thousand strong.” 

Later this was superceded by the song sung by multiplied 
thousands of marching troops: 

“John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave, 

But his soul goes marching on.” 

I11 fact it seemed as though there was no limit to the tramp of 
armed men, and one wondered where they all came from. 

“They came as the winds come when forests are rended; 

They came as the waves come when navies are stranded.” 

I felt it my duty to enlist, and determined to do so as soon as 
the spring session closed in May. At request of Aunt Tilda on 
leaving home, I had made diligent inquiry for both Lucinda an 
Sam, but no one knew any mulattoes ol those names. I got trace 
of a woman who, by description, corresponded with Lucinda, but 
my informant told me she had gone to Cleveland to.teach a colored 
school, she having been educated for this purpose at the Oberlin School. 
I had no means of following up this clue. Some two weeks before 
my college year closed, a fellow student stepped into my room and 
asked me to take a short evening stroll. I agreed immediately, for 
I had been working hard all day and needed recreation. As we 
returned in our walk from the suburbs of the quiet old town, my 
companion suggested we go into a church which was brilliantly 
lighted, where a wedding of colored folks was taking place. 

When the bride and groom and attendants swept down the 
opposite aisles to meet in front of the pulpit and audience, I noticed 


Bonnie Belmont. 


i 77 


by their dress and appearance they were altogether above the ordin¬ 
ary. The church was large and we were seated near the door. 
What surprised me was the number of the best educated and 
wealthy white citizens of the town in the church. When the bride 
and groom faced the audience there was something about their 
faces which immediately engaged my attention, and finally startled 
me, as the minister said: “You, Samuel Alexander, do take this 
woman, Lucinda Taylor, to be your lawful wife; that forsaking 
all others you will cleave unto her and love, honor and protect her 
while you both shall live?” Sam bowed in acknowledgment, and 
when the counter question was asked of Lucinda, she most grace¬ 
fully replied by responding, “I do,” in cultivated English. 

After the others had congratulated, I took my friend by the 
arm, and walking down in front of them, said: “I come to con¬ 
gratulate you, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander! Though I might have 
raised some ojection as I fancy you, Mr. Alexander, did not get the 
consent of Mrs. Alexander’s mother, Aunt Tilda, before this cere¬ 
mony took place? However, I feel I can give consent for her, as 
she is still living at our house in Belmont County, in good health, 
and would be glad to see you both, as she often talks of you. In 
fact, she has been waiting and hoping I would hunt you up, so she 
could open communication, but until this evening my efforts have 
been unavailing. She will be rejoiced to hear from you.” 

It would be difficult to describe the looks of astonishment on 
the faces of Sam and Lucinda. “You will excuse me,” said Sam 
inquiringly, “but neither of us know from whom we are having the 
pleasure of these congratulations.” “Perhaps I can remind you 
both,”I said laughingly. “Do you, Mrs. Alexander, remember the 
boy who offered you the ginger cake at the market house in Wheel¬ 
ing about eight years ago? And you, Mr. Alexander, the boy 
whom the day after, you met in the graveyard on the Ohio river 
hill, and who showed you the VanPelt house, and sent Campbell to 
you down in the orchard?” They both grasped my hands at once. 
The others looked on in astonishment. I begged their pardon for 
my interruption at such an unseemly moment, but gave as my 
excuse that if I did not embrace the opportunity while it presented 
itself, I might lose it altogether. They plead with me to go to 
the house of a friend nearby, where they were to go for late supper, 
preparatory to starting for their future home in Cleveland. I went 


i ;8 


At College. 


with them and found that after leaving Belmont County, they by 
pre-arrangement, ultimately made their way to Oberlin, where they 
had been taken care of by Friends, both becoming educated at the 
schools there, and that Sam was a minister of the gospel, having a 
charge in Cleveland; that Lucinda had been engaged in teaching 
there recently and had come back to be married at the house of 
those whom she regarded as almost her parents. Fearing they 
would be captured, they had assumed different names, and hence 
the futility of all our efforts to find them. 

As the war was already on, and the death knell of slavery was 
sounding, they no longer felt any fears, and determined to be mar¬ 
ried under their true names, which greatly astonished all who 
knew them, excepting one or two having knowledge of the facts. 
They were afraid to inquire of Aunt Tilda, as this might furnish a 
clue to their identity and possible recapture. Of course, I told them 
all about Aunt Tilda, but could give no information of Mose. 
"Poor Mose!” said Lucinda. “We all escaped but him! Poor fel¬ 
low! I wonder if I shall ever see him?” 1 was surprised and grati¬ 
fied at the change which had been wrought on both Sam and Lu¬ 
cinda for the better. They not only looked aristocratic, but I found 
them quite intelligent and well liked by all. Before leaving them 
I made arrangements they should accompany me home for a visit to 
Aunt Tilda. I wrote home immediately, so as to give her a grain 
of comfort. You know how she rejoiced and thanked God for weeks, 
going around singing, "The Old Ship of Zion/’ her favorite means of 
showing she was happy. 

What a scene there was at the old farm house, when two 
weeks Gter these two reunited souls threw their arms around each 
other and wept out their overflowing joy. As I witnessed it, I 
thought of their last heartrending embrace and parting, which I had 
seen at the market house. It needed but one more soul to make that 
circle complete and happy.—Poor Mose! 


Bonnie Belmont. 


179 


I Enlist. 

M Y school days were over forever, though I did not know it 
then. I, in common with every one else at that time, 
assumed the war would be over in a few months, and I 
could then resume my studies. But a God of justice had decreed 
otherwise. He was calling for the best blood of the nation as a 
sacrificial offering for its great crime; and the agonizing cries and 
sobs of heartbroken women all over the land were to be thrown 
in to balance the scale of His retributive justice. 

I can never forget the look in mother’s eyes when she found 
five of her boys had enlisted. The pathetic, helpless appeal on her 
face was affecting to the last degree. And then the parting from 
our dear sisters! As we threw our arms around them and kissed 
good-bye, we then realized how dear they were to us. Our kind 
father averted his face as he pressed our hands, but urged us on to 
duty. They told us after we had gone, he walked around for weeks 
like one who, half dazed, was looking for something he could not 
find. Most of us never saw him again, for he lost his life in trying 
to save that of one of his boys in a Southern hospital. The last and 
sixth of the family to enlist was brother Fenimore, when between 
thirteen and fourteen years of age. When the others enlisted he 
declared he would go also. But he was a mere child, and we 
laughed at him. After we had gone he secured a tenor drum and 
became quite proficient as a drummer. He was watching closely 
the formation of a company on the old fair ground on Wheeling 
Island, just above the back-river wooden bridge. One day mother 
sent him to drive the hogs out of the wheat field and stop the holes 
in the fence. He went, but unobserved, took his drum. The com¬ 
pany was to move that day to the front. He went to the captain 
to act as a drummer boy. The captain informed him he could not 
take him without the written consent of his parents. “Fin,” as we 
called him, said he would bring it within two hours, which he did. 
But he had written the permit himself. He was the last to be dis¬ 
charged, his regiment having been among the troops sent to the 



i8o 


I Enlist. 


borders of Mexico to be ready to enforce the demands of this 
country on France to take her troops out of Mexico, when she, tak¬ 
ing advantage of our extremity, was trying to found an empire 
under Maximilian. 

When “Fin” returned he walked into the house, and clasping 
mother round the neck, said, “Mother, I have driven out the hogs 
and stopped the holes.” Our whole family suffered by the war. 
At one time, just after father’s death, there was no male person on 
the farm to take care of it, and my mother and sisters, when the 
snow was twelve inches deep, had to hitch up the team and haul 
hay and fodder, to keep the stock from starving. Some of the gray¬ 
haired neighbors (for all others were in the army) came at times 
and helped them. In the absence of the boys and death of father, 
the farm was ultimately swept away by a mortgage. 

Minerva, my friends, Charlie Chandler, Jack Salisbury and I 
arrived home from school about the same time. I did not enlist 
for a few weeks, as father desired some help on the farm. It seems 
strange to me to this day that Charlie and I did not go together in 
the war. From the attachment which always existed between us, 
it would have been the most natural thing to expect. I think I 
enlisted first, however. He preferred the gun-boat service, and I 
went in the infantry. After I enlisted I did not see nor hear from 
him until after the war. We enjoyed a month together before 
going, and notwithstanding the excitement of war, they were the 
most pleasant days of our lives. On one of our Sabbath strolls, he 
informed me of his engagement to his present amiable, loving 
wife, one of his college mates. 

When Jack, who had likewise been attending college, wrote 
Minerva he intended leaving college to enlist, she opposed it bit¬ 
terly, and this was still the disrupted question between them when 
they met at home. He urged upon her his patriotic duty, but she 
met it with his delicate physical organization, and the assertion 
there were plenty of able-bodied men to do the fighting and crush¬ 
ing fatigue duties of active military life. She clung to this to the 
last. She asked it as the one thing only which she would ever ask. 
When she found he had settled upon it and could not be changed, 
she gracefully acquiesced, and tried to make his short stay before 
enlistment as pleasant as possible. Their meetings and strolls were 
frequent, and she in a measure showed less reserve toward him than 


Bonnie Belmont. 


181 


theretofore. He wanted once more to ask a reply to his former 
avowal of love. He longed for it before placing himself in a posi¬ 
tion where it was quite possible they might never meet again; but 
he had given her his promise not to again broach the question until 
the age of majority, and he determined if before that time the 
matter were adverted to, it would have to be by her. He was 
yearning and hoping in his soul she would, and once or twice, 
when the flow of their conversation ran close to their mutual rela¬ 
tions and they were looking into each other’s eyes, he was certain 
she was going to speak of it. But if she really contemplated it, the 
propitious moment passed, and he was left with an aching void, an 
ungratified longing. 

Once he determined to break his promise, and give as a reason 
for so doing, the changed condition of war, and his proposed enlist¬ 
ment; but his sense of pride came to his aid, and he refrained from 
asking for what he so deeply desired. 

It seemed to him then, it would be such a degree of assuring 
comfort in the future, no matter what the dangers and hardships of 
army life might be, to carry Minerva’s promise with him. He imag¬ 
ined she divined his thoughts, and this gave him more discomfort 
that she did not speak. When she did not, the best he could do to 
pacify his own misgivings, was to feel she refrained from a sense 
of modesty so cautiously observed by some on that, (to a woman,) 
most momentous of all questions. 

One afternoon they strolled to the old Weeks cemetery. As 
they stood on the summit of that beautiful spot and took in the 
broad delightful scenery of surrounding happy farm homes, Miner¬ 
va’s eyes seemed to kindle with delight, and as he looked at her it 
struck him he had never seen her so lovely. Her two years at the 
seminary had added a grace and culture which, with her natural 
beauty, was truly fascinating. She noticed his scrutinizing gaze 
and blushed. He knew she had read his thoughts. “Do you 
know,” she said, “when I look upon these stone monuments to de¬ 
parted ones, these thought connecting links between the living and 
the dead, I am reminded of some extracts from that beautiful poem 
of George D. Prentice, entitled ‘The Closing Year.’” “Will you 
repeat them?” Jack said. “I will give you one or two,” she replied. 


I Enlist. 


182 


“Within the deep, 

Still chamber of the heart, a spectre dim, 

Whose tones are like the Wizard’s voice of time 
Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold 
And solemn finger to the beautiful 
And holy visions that have passed away, 

And left no shadow of their loveliness 
On the dead waste of life.” 


“Resolutions sweep 

O’er Earth, like troubled visions o’er the breast 
Of dreaming sorrow.” 

«lr v*/ 

^Jx ^jx /{» ^ 

“Time, the tomb builder, holds his fierce career, 

Dark, stern, all pitiless, and pauses not 
Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path 
To sit and muse, like other conquerors, 

Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.” 

“What a beautiful writer he is,” Jack exclaimed, “and what a 
delightful poem ‘The Closing Year’ is.” “Yes,” she rejoined, “but 
it is too doleful, and I should not have mentioned it to you.” She 
looked at him and smiled. They came to the grave of a departed 
friend. He stopped and said, “Minerva, here is a sad, sad story.” 
“Yes,” she replied, “the old story. They say she died of a broken 
heart. What are the facts? Do you know anything of them?” 
“Yes, quite well,” Jack said. “My sister and she were bosom 
friends and she told her all. Briefly stated, they loved and were 
engaged. He went to California in pursuit of wealth in 1848 , 
promising when it was obtained to return, and ‘they two would be 
wed.’ He married a wealthy women there who subsequently died, 
leaving him all her wealth. It is said one never forgets his first 
love, so he reduced all his property to money and came home to 
his first affianced, to ask her forgiveness and her hand. But his 
loved one and had learned of his infidelity, and she pined away and died. 
When he returned, she had been lying in this grave three days. She 
died with his name on her lips.” “Do you think he really loved her ?” 
said Minerva. “I have no doubt of it,” Jack replied. “Only a few Sab¬ 
baths ago I was strolling here alone, and coming up from behind, I 


Bonnie Belmont. 


183 


found him sitting on her grave, and when he turned suddenly, the tears 
were running down his cheeks. Yes, I am a firm believer in those beau¬ 
tiful couplets of George Arnold : 

‘‘No! if you once have truly loved, you will still love on, I know 
Till the churchyard myrtles blossom above, and you lie mute below. 
How is it, I wonder, hereafter? Faith teaches us little here, 

Of the ones we have loved and lost on earth—do you think they will 
still be dear? 

Shall we live the lives we might have lead—will those who are 
severed now 

Remember the pledge of a lower sphere, and renew the broken vow? 
Experience is bitter, but its teachings we retain; 

It has taught me this—who once has loved, loves never on earth 
again! 

Some of the most pleasant hours were spent by Minerva and Jack 
at the home of their friends, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Woods, a few 
hundred yards west of the Tavern and tollgate, at what is now known 
as the John Woods homestead, where they then resided. 

What a blessed thing it is to young people in the country, 
where wdiole-souled hospitality is ever hung to the latch string of a 
neighbor’s door. It was so at this home. It was but a short stroll 
from Minerva’s home, and the landscape view for its whole distance 
is beautiful and imposing. The cordial greetings which they al¬ 
ways received from Mr. and Mrs. Woods made them feel they were 
welcome, and they and the Woods’ became fast friends. The short 
interval between our return from college and the enlistments of 
Charlie, Jack and myself, was spent by us mainly at our own homes 
and those of Chandlers and Woods. 

Minerva seemed uneasy and ill at ease, and Jack noticed her 
countenance bore an anxious and troubled expression. Jack one 
evening asked her the cause of it, and she frankly admitted it was 
his proposed enlistment. It is singular how in this life matters will 
sometimes work by opposites. Here was Minerva sorrowing, and 
yet that very sorrow was a source of great joy to Jack. He argued 
if she did not love him, she would not be thus troubled. 

It was Saturday, and they concluded to take a short walk to 
Chandlers, spending the evening there. On their way past the 


184 


I Enlist. 


tailgate a two-seated spring wagon drove up with three occupants 
of a neighboring family, husband, wife and daughter. The seat 
beside the daughter was vacant. Each wore a sad face, and they 
were in tears. They were just returning from Bridgeport, where 
they had seen their son and brother, a noble, manly fellow, off to the 
war. They were pathetically exhibiting the suit of clothes which 
he last wore, and which had been replaced by his military uniform 
of blue. They seemed heartbroken indeed, and it was mournful in 
ihe extreme. That noble boy never returned. His body lies in 
one of the nameless graves in that indefinable battlefield of the 
Wilderness. 

At Chandler’s, Charlie was waiting for them, and they spent as 
happy an evening as it was possible to do under the circumstances. 
A sense of ominous awe apparently pervaded the hearts of all. 
They wore it off in a measure by discussing the exciting war news 
of the day, followed by some literary reading and discussion. A 
Miss Adaline WTeks was spending the afternoon and evening with 
Mrs. Chandler. After the evening was over, Charlie, Miss Weeks, 
Minerva and Jack took their usual walk around the road to their 
homes. Jack waited at the gate with Minerva until Charlie re¬ 
turned, for he was going to Jack’s home to spend the Sabbath. 
W 7 hen they arrived at the little knoll east of the Tavern, Jack said, 
‘‘Charlie, this is where I always turn to wave a handkerchief good¬ 
bye to Minerva. Let us see if she is still there.” He turned and 
waved, and a white flutter at the gate responded. It was a little 
thing, but to see her do it when Charlie was with him, gave Jack 
infinite satisfaction. “WTat did I tell you?” said Charlie. “I know 
she loves you. Has she never answered you yet?” “Never!” Jack 
replied. “Will you not have her do so before you go?” said Charlie. 
“I once promised her never to broach the question again until I am 
of age. I will keep my promise, though conditions have greatly 
changed. I am not yet nineteen,” Jack said. “W^ell,” said he, after 
some deliberation, “you can rest assured she loves you, and you 
need have no fears on that point. I would wager my life on it.” 
They climbed upon the fence by the side of the road on the little 
hillock on our grandfather’s farm, which overlooks our home, and 
in that soft June evening conversed confidingly of their futures until 
long after midnight. Oh, the air castles we all builded then! The 
ambitious and glowing hopes! Alas! the rough paths our feet have 


Bonnie Belmont. 


i8* 

trod since have grayed our hair and furrowed our cheeks, and we 
have known sorrow. But they can never take from us the memory 
of those blessed days of most devout friendship. 

The desolation brought to the farm by the enlistment at about 
the same time of six of the members of our family was most 
marked and impressive. Our mother and sister described it to us 
afterward as almost unbearable. Beside our father it left no other 
male member except our brother Sumner, then a babe in arms. 
Even the two dogs, “Tip” and “Tyler,” seemed to wonder at the 
dreamy silence, and, restive at the protracted absence of their boy 
companions, looked with inquisitive muteness into the faces of oir 
sisters. 

When Aunt Tilda found we were going to “de wall,” as she 
termed it, you remember how she charged each of us to bring Mose 
back with us. Of course we all promised her. Her ideas of the 
country were so limited she imagined we would have no difficulty 
in running across him. She had become quite an indispensable per¬ 
sonage at our home. You remember we called her “The Boss.” 
We allowed her to have her way, and it was ordinarily correct. I 
think there was nothing in the world she would not have done for 
any of us. We all loved Aunt Tilda. She enjoyed the few days’ 
visit of Lucinda and Sam ; but when they returned they could not 
prevail on her to make her future home with them in Cleveland. 
She promised them a visit, but said she was going to wait for “Poor 
Mose,” as she was suah he would come back to “Wheelin’ jis as 
soon as de Linkum soja’s gits down dah.” When Fort Sumpter 
was fired on, Matilda shouted, “Glory to God! Glory to God! Now 
de deliberance ob de Lord am come to my people! Bless de Lo’d! 
Bless His holy name! Now I’ll git to see my boy Mose! Gwine 
to see him suah, honeys! Gwine to see my good boy Mose! Bless 
de Lo’d! Bless de Lo’d!” 


“But still her lips refused to say ‘Farewell!’ 

For in that word—that fatal word—howe’er 
We promise—hope—believe—there breathes despair.” 

Jack could scarcely know how to describe his sentiments and 
all the emotions which entered into his enlistment. He was im- 



I Enlist. 


i 86 

pressed a young man deeply in love, is likely to do either a great, 
or a foolish thing. 

He felt first a strong sense of patriotic duty was the impelling mo¬ 
tive. It was not entirely unmixed with boyish ambition—“that glorious 
cheat”—not altogether passing over that “strange unrest in the human 
breast,” which seems to actuate most young people at a certain age. 
That longing to strike out in the world and do something. That love 
of independent action. This spirit had discovered new worlds, peopled 
continents and toppled kingdoms and dynasties. 

Jack had promised Minerva to spend his last evening before 
joining his regiment, with her. The strange emotions which filled 
his heart at that meeting and separation can never be forgotten 
while life lasts. He found her sadder and more reflective than he 
had ever noticed. Her looks and actions toward him were more 
subdued and tender, not to say remorseful. 

When the apple trees are in bloom, filling the air with their 
varied, delicious fragrance, there is no spot on earth more lovely 
than the Ohio Valley and vicinity. It was this season of the year, 
and the surroundings never struck Jack with a greater degree of 
loveliness. Minerva’s home fronted on the road, and was sur¬ 
rounded by apple and other fruit trees. It is still an attractive spot. 
In the afternoon they took a stroll to the knoll by the cemetery, 
taking in the surrounding loveliness of landscape, and thence along 
the sandy ridge road past our grandfather’s to the high point im¬ 
mediately east, where they could take a full view of his own dear 
old farm. A portion of Wheeling appeared in the distance. The 
fine farm lands of the Scotch and Pinch Ridge neighborhoods lay 
spread out before them in a beautiful panorama of multiplied miles 
of green fields dotted with sheep and lowing kine. Across the de¬ 
pression formed by Buckeye Run they could see in the dim distance 
the chamber of his old home where he slept. The different affec¬ 
tions for his father, mother, brothers and sisters, individually, col¬ 
lected themselves in a deep reflective reverie, and even the attach¬ 
ments for the different animals on the farm came marshaling in 
their train. He thought again of the different sylvan bowers and 
other choice spots on the farm which the fanc}^ of boyhood had 
selected. He thought of the little petty differences which some¬ 
times occurred, and then of the many joyous pleasure of his family. 
When he thought of these and many more, and that perhaps he 


Bonnie Belmont. 


i8 7 


might never see those dear ones again, how he wished he could 
withdraw every bitter incident and augment a thousand fold the 
joys of every pleasurable one. He felt thankful that God has given 
to us the faculty of readily forgetting our sorrow, and long remem¬ 
bering and cherishing our pleasures! How long Jack remained in 
this thoughtful oblivion to the outside world he does not know, but 
he was apparently brought back to a consciousness of his surround¬ 
ings by the soft touch of Minerva’s hand on his arm. “I did not 
like to disturb you,” she said, “while you were looking so reflec¬ 
tively over there at your dear old home, for I can imagine in a meas¬ 
ure some of your sad and possibly pleasant thoughts, but had we 
not better go back now? You know you are to take tea with us. 
and I imagine it will be ready by the time we return. After that 
we will take a stroll to Woods’ and Chandler’s.” 

When they arrived at the little knoll east of the Tavern, Jack 
paused for a moment and said, “Minerva, here is where I always 
turn to wave you a last good-bye.” “Yes,” she said. “What a 
habit it has become with us!” “I trust there is more in it than the 
result of habit,” Jack replied. “It is certainly more than that to 
me.” “I am glad to hear you say so,” she rejoined, “for 1 always 
look for it, and I am free to admit it is not all habit.” 

Their tea at the Doctor’s was a pleasant one and all appeared 
to take a subdued interest in Jack’s contemplated departure, and 
soften as far as possible the prospect of a hard life ahead. Jack 
threw off the really sad feelings he had and put on an air of cheeri¬ 
ness he did not feel. This did not escape the critical eye of Min¬ 
erva, however, she knew him through and through. Mrs. Patter¬ 
son and the Doctor were both educated and quite refined people, 
and it was always a pleasure to have their company. What a tell¬ 
ing effect the refinement of a parent has on the child. How much 
it would add to the culture of society if every parent sufficiently 
realized this fact. Next to the power of money, I would place that 
of urbanity. The Doctor and his wife were polite and entertaining. 
They had the faculty of making a guest feel comfortable and easy. 

After tea they spent an hour with their friends, Mr. and Mrs. 
Woods, and passed on to Chandler’s, where they- found Miss Cassie 
Hogg, who was visiting her sister. This was one of the memorably 
pleasant short evenings cherished by them. I was present on this 


i88 


I Enlist. 


* 


occasion also. Miss Hogg was a most pleasant and attractive lady, 
and I am glad to know she and her excellent husband, I. N. Fogle, 
are still retained as among those old-time friends, now very dear to 
me. One by one they have passed to the other side, and as I am 
recalling their sacred memories and departures, I am reminded of 
the impressive lines of Ludwig Uhland: 

So, where’er I turn my eye 
Back upon the days gone by, 

Sudden thoughts of friends come o’er me; 

Friends that closed their course before me. 

Minerva and Jack left the Chandler mansion quite early, and 
strolling back to Minerva’s home, seated themselves on the long 
rustic seat in the lawn under a friendly apple tree, the blossoms 
from which had freighted the whole surrounding atmosphere with 
a delightful perfume. It was a beautiful balmy evening, and all 
nature, as if arousing from a winter’s dream, was full of suggestive 
life and loveliness. 

In the stillness of the evening they could hear the low beat of 
the bass drum as it kept tune to the martial tread of armed troops 
gathering on Wheeling Island. They talked long and earnestly of 
their past, their school days from early childhood, of their later 
more mutual associations, and of his ambitious hopes of the future. 
It was a memorable night to him; but he could not say it was one 
of entire pleasure. While Minerva was all kindness and solicitude, 
yet she had never answered his request fully, and he conceived, 
notwithstanding her promise to do so in the future, and his to keep 
silent, under changed conditions the time had arrived for her to 
break the silence. Fie felt a reserve, inexplicable, had taken posses¬ 
sion of both, and that each of them desired to unburden to the other 
a sentiment which was not fully defined in their thoughts, or that 
neither of them could find words to fully express. He had a con¬ 
ception Minerva desired to give him the long coveted answer, not¬ 
withstanding her former resolution, but was restrained by a high 
degree of womanly modesty. 

The large clock in the Doctor’s house was striking the hour 
of eleven, and he determined to give Minerva one more opportunity 
to answer. He arose and said, “Now, Minerva, the hour has come 


Bonnie Belmont. 


189 


when you and I must part. I trust it is not for all time, but for 
fear it may be, at the risk of being regarded as importunate, I feel 
like quoting the lines of Crabb’s Tales of the Hall, though they 
may or may not be appropriate in our case. I do not know—- 
you do.” 

“Then came the parting hour, and what arise 
When lovers part—expressive looks and eyes 
Tender and fearful—many a fond adieu.” 

She looked up inquiringly at him a moment, and then softly, 
even tenderly, said, “I at present can only reply in the suggestive 
language of Mrs. Caroline Bowles: 

“I never speak the word ‘Farewell!’ 

But with an utterance faint and broken! 

A heart-sick yearning for the time 
When it shall never more be spoken.” 

He had taken her hand when he arose, and as she closed, he 
stooped over and kissed her lips and with a warm pressure of the 
hand he was gone. It was the first time their lips had ever met, 
and he left her with bowed head, under the apple blossoms. At the 
little hillock he turned and waved his handkerchief, but there was 
no response. He looked for her at the gate, but there was no form 
there. The seat under the apple tree was hid from his view. He 
waited for a moment, vainly hoping she might come, and then 
turned sadly away and out of sight. 


190 


War and Army Life. 


War and Army Life. 

1 SHALL never forget my first impressions of army life as a 
soldier. Our regiment was quartered at Mansfield, Ohio, 
awaiting the coming in of the several companies composing it. 
We arrived there in the evening, tired and hungry, finding a portion 
of the regiment already there. Under the manipulations of Secre¬ 
tary Floyd the government was left with little or nothing with 
which to provision an army. Our supper was composed of hard 
crackers, flitch, sugar and coffee without any cream in it. My 
mother was a good cook, and the contrast between this meal and 
the bountiful supplies of the farm and groceries from the city al¬ 
ways spread upon her table, was a shock which dissipated all ro¬ 
mance of war which had heretofore played in such glittering fancy 
in my imagination. I made my bed that night upon a pile of straw 
in a wall tent under two blankets, supplied by myself and comrade, 
Alexis Cope, of Farmington. I awoke next morning with stiffened 
limbs and an uncomfortable feeling from the effects of a cold taken 
during the night. I then began to have a realizing sense of the 
hardships and the sufferings subsequently to be endured as a 
soldier. 

The state of Kentucky had declared her neutrality in the war 
and warned both armies, North and South, that they must not 
invade the territory of that State. 

General Russau had been collecting an army near Cincinnati, 
and one night unexpectedly threw his brigade into Louisville, and 
rapidly passing on through the capital of the State, advanced our 
front to Barren river. Our regiment composed a portion of this 
army division. We lay there for a time, when we were ordered to 
the assistance of General Grant, who was then fighting the battle of 
Fort Donaldson. Before arriving there, Grant had completed his 
first great victory, and we retraced our steps, going on to Bowling 
Green. It was a most laborious march, as heavy rains had pre¬ 
vailed, and each company had to remain with its wagon in order at 
times to extricate the wagon from the mud, which in places was 


Bonnie Belmont. 


I 9 I 

axle deep. The river at Bowling Green had been very high, cover¬ 
ing the second bottom for at least a quarter of a mile, but had 
receded, leaving the bottom a mass of mud and water. 

It was here I had my first sight of the effective operations of 
artillery. Bowling Green was located on an elevated body of land 
just across the river from the direction in which we were advancing. 
As we came in sight of the town a long line of Confederate cars 
loaded with provision was just moving out along the ridge in full 
view, possibly a mile and a half distant. Cotter’s battery unlim¬ 
bered and sent a solid shot, which carried away the front wheels 
of the engine, thereby stopping the train, and all other trains 
behind it, which we captured. 

In crossing the bottom the mud was so deep that many of the 
soldiers lost their shoes. I was compelled to leave a good pair of 
boots sticking in the mud, by pulling my feet out of them, and I 
crossed the remainder of that bottom and a pontoon bridge which 
we had constructed across the river, in my bare feet. It was sleet¬ 
ing and freezing, and I was compelled to sit on a log with my feet 
to the fire, while my brother Rob went to secure a pair of shoes. 
Commissary was inaccessible, being then on the march, and we 
were compelled to buy a pair from a German. These shoes were 
too large for me and I had not marched many miles before the 
skin was worn from my feet, and I was compelled to drop behind 
my comrades. I ran across Dr. Isaac Cope, who, though not well, 
was determined not to go to the hospital, but to remain with the 
command. When we had completed half the distance between 
Bowling Green and Nashville we succeeded in securing a cattle 
car and attached it to a moving train, which took us to the Tennes¬ 
see river, opposite Nashville, the bridge across the river having 
been destroyed by the Confederates on their evacuation of that city. 

For the first year of the war, our part of the army under Gen¬ 
eral Buell was made to do much guard and fatigue duty, in pro¬ 
tecting property and slaves of the families of the section through 
which we marched, whose husbands and sons were fighting us in 
the Confederate army. Added to the other duties of the soldier, 
this became particularly burdensome and it produced a widespread 
dissatisfaction among the soldiers. While in Kentucky and Ten¬ 
nessee, many slave owners would ride into camp, and in most ar¬ 
rogant and imperious language, demand an answer as to whether 


192 


War and Army Life. 


their slaves were there or had been seen. In the earlier part of the 
war these salutations were met by respectful replies. But as the 
Union soldier began to realize the great task before him, and the 
tenacity with which the South was still persisting in the rebellion, 
they began to know the quickest way to end it, was to make those 
engaged in it, either actively or sympathetically, realize fully the 
severities of war. The common soldier not only refused to wear 
out his life in this extra duty, but on the contrary, aided the escape 
of all slaves in every manner possible. It subsequently became a 
dangerous matter for an owner to follow his slave within the 
atmosphere of a Federal camp, and the owners very quickly learned 
and heeded this danger. 

The Union officers were powerless to enforce the military 
orders as to further guard duty for Southern rebels, and the orders 
were discontinued. No one in time of actual war sees the point of 
vantage in military tactics or strategy quicker than the common 
soldier, and I think this is especially true of American soldiers. 

While in Nashville, in company with Surgeon Isaac Cope and 
Captain Jenks, I visited the tomb of President Polk. It is located 
in the heart of the city in the front yard of the Polk residence, about 
half way from the gate to the front door, the front walk dividing 
and passing around on either side the monument erected over his 
grave. 

While we in Federal uniform were reading the inscription, Mrs. 
Polk, a very fine appearing aged lady, came down the walk, and 
looking at us quizically, said, “Gentlemen, is it out of respect for 
the President, or mere idle curiosity which brings you here to his 
grave?” Quick as a shot Captain Jenks replied, “We cannot say, 
madam, it is either. It is out of our high regard for the exalted 
position which he once occupied.” She illy succeeded in concealing 
the pique which this quick retort brought, and quietly plucking a 
flower from the tidily kept grave, she slowly returned to the house. 
Captain Jenks, as we turned away, sarcastically remarked, “I think 
she feels she did not make much by that insinuation.” Mrs. Polk 
was a deep sympathizer with the cause of the South. Apparently 
the sight of Federal uniforms around the tomb of her husband was 
displeasing to her. 

In company with our brother “Rob,” his wife. Surgeon Isaac 
Cope and some other officers, we visited the home and tombs of 



Bonnie Belmont. 


193 


President Andrew Jackson and his wife at the “Hermitage,” some 
fourteen miles from Nashville. It is a fine farm and a really beau¬ 
tiful place, in a topographically inviting stretch of country. They 
are buried side by side, each grave being covered with a broad stone 
slab, extending the whole length of the grave, with a covering over 
all, supported by four corner pillars. Mrs. Jackson died first, 
and her husband has inscribed upon her stone a long and affection¬ 
ate eulogy. On his own are the simple words, “General Andrew 
Jackson, born March 15, 1767, died June 8, 1843.” He wrote both 
inscriptions himself, and one would reasonably infer he took more 
pride in the title of “General” than of “President,” as no mention is 
made of the latter. His eulogy of his wife is tender and praise¬ 
worthy. Manifestly the old hero could love, as well as fight, and 
could carry that love devotedly to the grave. 

One day while lying in camp south of Nashville, a tall, power¬ 
fully built, active, light colored negro woman came running through 
the regiment with all speed, followed by a white man with whip 
and dog. She was almost out of breath, and as she halted in front 
of us, cried out in despair, “O, gentlemen, for God’s sake save me, 
and don’t let that man take me back into slavery again!” Some one 
said, “Who is he?” “He’s a slave catcher, and he’ll beat the life out 
of me for runnin’ away,” she replied. The negro catcher, who just 
then came up holding his dog by a rope, appeared as much out of 
breath as she, but hearing her last words said, “Yes, and I intend 
to give your back a good flaying for this, and I’ll give you some of 
it right here.” “Don’t you strike that woman with that whip 
here,” said a large, brawny soldier, as the slave driver began turn¬ 
ing his cat-o’-nine-tails so as to use the loaded end on her. When 
he approached and caught her savagely by the arm, she shook him 
off like a child, for she was a field hand, and wonderfully strong. 
He fell on the ground amid the jeers and laughter of the soldiers. 
It angered him, and he made a rush, striking her on the head with 
the leaden end of the whip. She staggered and reeled clear around, 
and I shall never forget the wild look of despair in her eyes as she 
recovered her equilibrium. In an instant a crushing blow from the 
brawny fist of the Indianan who had warned him not to strike her, 
fell full upon the face of the slave catcher, crushing the bridge of his 
nose like an egg shell and felling him to the ground. It did not stop at 
this. A half dozen bayonets were run through the bloodhound, killing 


194 


War and Army Life. 


him, and his master was so mercilessly beaten that he died shortly 
after. I never knew what became of the fugitive. 

One evening in a quiet balmy twilight, I heard the sweet 
strains from a violin in a neighboring regiment which had come into 
camp the day before in Southern Tennessee. It started me to 
thinking of home. I had been out nearly a year, and through the 
imperfect mail service afforded us, had received possibly two 
dozen letters from home. They were full of solicitude for 
me, giving the events at home in as much detail as possible. I 
wondered what they were doing at that hour, and dreamily lived 
over our past as the sweet strains of music played upon my heart. 
Suddenly it struck me there was a strange familiarity about those 
tunes, suggestive of our cousin, James Cochran, who you will re¬ 
member, was a fine violinist, and who frequently played for our 
picnics and dances in the neighborhood. But I had not heard of 
him having enlisted, and when I reflected how bitterly his father 
was opposed to the war, that of the thirty thousand soldiers then 
in that camp, it was altogether likely some one would be able to 
play all these tunes of our neighborhood. I concluded I was likely 
mistaken. But the tunes kept going, and fully convinced it was 
he, I followed the sound of the violin until I came to the tent where 
the music was, and looking in, there saw Cousin James. Of course 
it stopped the music, and he was quite as much surprised as I. 
When I told him how I discovered him we had a good laugh. 

But slight conception can be formed in civil life of what a 
soldier has to pass through and suffer in an active campaign. He 
is not permitted to become a sluggard. Every day is one of active 
duty, more or less, of some kind. The reveille is usually sounded 
an hour before day, when each soldier and officer is required to be 
formed, properly dressed and armed, in line, ready for action and to 
respond to roll-call. His clothing and person are required to be 
kept neat and clean, and his arms bright and burnished, ready for 
use. He has plenty to do in drilling, marching, cooking, camp and 
picket guard duty and fatigue duty. Camp guard duty is that 
which requires a guard thrown around each regiment, to keep the 
members in place, and not permit them outside the regimental lines 
without a proper pass. Picket guard duty is that which rquires a 
guard thrown around the whole army at a distance of one to three 


Bonnie Belmont. 


195 


miles, in case of infantry, and ordinarily a picket guard of cavalry is 
thrown outside this line a number of miles distant. When an ad¬ 
vance is made by the enemy, these picket guards send couriers to 
the main body, fighting as they fall back. They are very frequently 
captured, and thus made sacrifice for the whole army. Imagine a 
regiment marching from twenty to thirty miles in a day and then 
doing picket duty all night. When the weather is cold or wet, 
this adds to the hardship. If in close proximity to the enemy, no 
campfires are permitted and the soldier is compelled to eat crackers 
and raw meat, with no coffee. Still more unfortunate is he, if it has 
been raining, sleeting or snowing, or possibly doing all of these. 
I 11 some of our winter forced marches we were compelled to ford 
rivers and streams, where the water would come up to the arm 
pits, and we would not be out of the stream an hour before we could 
hear the whet, whet, whet of frozen pants legs one against the 
other, as the march went on, with a prospect of going into a fight 
at the end of it. Imagine marching all day and half the night in 
such condition, eating at midnight without fire or warmth, and 
going into battle at daylight. Imagine lying down in the sleeting 
rain without shelter, with your shoulder-cape thrown over your 
head, to sleep an hour or so, and then awaken to find the cape 
frozen to your hair. Imagine the water running around you on the 
ground, and yet too tired and exhausted to stand. These and many 
other hardships are endured. A soldier becomes so schooled to 
them, he can readily sleep standing on his feet, and yet detect the 
slightest sound and be awake in a moment. Then again, when 
exhausted, and no immediate forward movement is contemplated, 
he can sleep in line of battle under the most galling fire. In cross¬ 
ing streams where the water is high, the cartridge box containing 
the ammunition, and usually the haversack, are strapped upon the 
shoulders, and the men pass over in platoons of eight, holding each 
other by the shoulder so as not to be washed down by the current. 

To a delicate man these hardships are most overpowering. To 
my very dear friends, Wash Vance, Geo. Chessel, Joe Farmer, 
David Blocher, and others, I shall ever feel grateful for timely as¬ 
sistance and kindness when I greatly needed it. Fatigue duty, such 
as digging rifle pits, throwing up fortifications, building quarters, 
cutting timber, providing firewood, making roads, day and night 


196 


War and Army Life. 


policing the camp and the like were sometimes required to be done 
when sleep and rest seemed much dearer than life. 

It was always a mystery as to what became of Christ Maule, a 
German, who was a member of our company. He had been well 
drilled in military tactics in the Prussian army, and was as good 
and faithful a soldier as I ever knew. He was placed on an outpost 
on the picket line one night, and when the relief went around they 
found his gun, cartridge box and knapsack beside a tree on his 
post, but Maule was never heard from afterward. He was much 
devoted to me, and I was greatly attached to him. 

It is quite difficult to describe one’s feelings in battle. In a 
heavy, hard fought battle I think there are few who participate 
without fear, more or less, of some kind. Especially is this so when 
the frequent “zip” of the musketry bullet and the bursting of shells 
are heard around, and the advancing movement of the enemy is in 
view. Again, there is nothing so demoralizing to a soldier as an 
attack in rear, or flank. It causes him to believe his commanders 
are not masters of the situation, and that through somebody’s 
blunder, or incompetency, the whole command has been led into a 
trap. His first, or at least second impulse, is indignation against 
his own commanders. A certain amount of fear is commendable, 
and even necessary. A person must necessarily be sufficiently im¬ 
pressed with the dangers of his surroundings, in order to be pre¬ 
pared to meet them. Much of all fear quickly wears off in battle, 
and the soldier becomes so much preoccupied and interested in the 
movements and the fight as in a measure to forget all else. There 
are times when a few minutes seem like an age; then there are 
others when a whole day has passed, and one can scarcely realize 
it has been more than an hour or so, and a sense of hunger may 
be the first admonition of the rapid flight of time. I have often 
thought, if there be such a person as one having absolutely no fear 
whatever, and yet endowed with great discretion, it is Captain C. 
W. Carroll, of old Company K of the 15th Ohio regiment, the pres¬ 
ent postmaster of St. Clairsville. Another man I would class with 
him is Col. James F. Charlesworth, of the same place, formerly col¬ 
onel of the 25 th Ohio, and though he received one of the most des¬ 
perate wounds of the war, still survives. He is also a veteran of 
the Mexican war and helped to level the walls of the Montezumas 
in the capture of the City of Mexico. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


197 


One of the first fights which our regiment saw, they were not 
permitted to participate in. It was on the Barren river in Kentucky 
on our march to Nashville. Our regiment was on picket duty on 
the north side of the river, with orders not to cress, while about 
six hundred of the 32nd Indiana, under Col. Willich, were advanced 
across the river and occupied a beautiful piece of bottom land in 
front of the bridge in full view. Orders had been issued not to 
bring on a general engagement, unless acting on the defensive. 
The enemy on this morning made a reconnoissance in force, attack¬ 
ing Col. Willich’s German regiment, with about thirty-two hundred 
cavalry, called “Texas Rangers.” The German regiment was one 
of the best drilled in the Federal army, and brave to a fault. They 
were deployed as skirmishers, presenting a thin line along our 
whole front, the men standing some distance apart. The cavalry 
emerged from a piece of lightly wooded timber about a mile distant 
and dashed with full rapidity upon the already outnumbered Ger¬ 
mans, the latter firing along their whole line, some of the saddles 
being emptied before the cavalry had spanned half the intervening 
distance. Then at the bugle call from the German commander, his 
regiment, rallied by platoons of sixteen with their backs thrown 
together and faces and bayonets outward, to resist cavalry charge. 
The enemy seeing this, immediately broke into single file in com¬ 
panies and parts of companies, charging toward each squad of 
Germans in Indian fashion, one behind the other. In this manner 
they would approach each squad at full gallop, and when within 
good navy pistol shot distance would suddenly wheel, going back 
in the same manner one behind the other, in a line parallel with 
that of their approach and but a few feet from it, to reform for 
another charge, beyond the fire of the Germans. Just as each 
horseman made the turn, he would fire about two shots at the 
squad. Of course, while this was going on, the Germans were not 
idle, but were dropping the enemy out of their saddles as they 
approached and as they retired. When the cavalry retreated to 
again form line, the Germans immediately deployed to prevent the 
artillery of the enemy from firing at the squads. This was repeated 
a number of times, and while the Germans were holding their own 
splendidly and acted like clock-work in their movements, yet the 
fearful odds began to tell on them, and they called for help. Capt. 
Frank Askew then commanded Company E of our regiment, and 


198 


War and Army Life. 


was stationed at the end of the bridge with positive orders not to 
cross. He was a splendid soldier, a rigid disciplinarian and a mag¬ 
nificent man, and these great qualities subsequently breveted him 
general. He refused to disobey orders. Capt. C. W. Carroll was 
then a lieutenant in Askew’s company. He asked permission to go 
to the assistance of the hard pressed Germans. The colonel refused 
it. “Then let me take a part of the boys over there. I don’t like 
to see those fellows fighting those overwhelming odds alone,’’ said 
the lieutenant. “You know what the positive orders are,” replied 
Askew, “and if you go, it will not be by my orders.” Some of the 
boys were anxious to go, and stood around Carroll. “I’ll take all 
responsibility,” said Carroll, “and I want to see what a rebel is 
made of anyway, so come boys,” and a portion of the company fol¬ 
lowed. But when they arrived on the other side the battle was 
over. I think the colonel wanted him to go. 

Some of the incidents of war are peculiar, and even amid the 
tragedy of it, are not without their amusing features. While this 
fight was going on, those of the wounded who were able to do so, 
hobbled across the bridge to our lines. One poor fellow who had 
received a terrible sword cut over the head, was hitching along with 
his head bowed over and blood all over, repeating in a mournful 
way, “O, mon cup! Mon cup! Mon cup!” He still carried the 
butt end of his gun on his shoulder, but the barrel had been cut 
almost in two about the center, the end with the bayonet on, hang¬ 
ing straight down his back by a remaining fragment. He had par¬ 
tially parried the stroke with his gun, and this saved his life. I 
noticed a little German on the end of the line who failed to rally in 
time, and in the charge he was cut off from his squad. When a 
cavalryman charges an infantryman, and both are facing each other, 
the cavalryman attempts to pass at full gallop on the right side of 
his enemy, and holding his sword over his right shoulder, pointing 
down his back, he can strike a terrible blow on his right side, as he 
li.ses in his stirrups in passing. Such a blow will cut through an 
ordinary musket. When the little German found he was cut off, 
and he saw the two cavalrymen approaching him at full gallop, one 
behind the other, he took deadly aim at the foremost, dropping him 
out of the saddle. The cavalryman apparently never moved after¬ 
wards. The other, knowing the gun of his enemy was unloaded, 
made a rapid rush with sword ready to strike. The German stood 



Judge C. W. Carroll 
Capt. Co. K, ijth O. V. I. 


















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« 
















■ 

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Bonnie Belmont. 


199 


facing him until the horse had approached to within what appeared 
to be the last jump, when quick as a shot, he jumped to the left side 
of the horse, and as the cavalryman’s sword went whistling through 
the air where the German formerly stood, the latter thrust his 
bayonet through the horseman’s body. The momentum of the 
horse was so great the sudden contact knocked the German flat on 
the ground, the horse galloped away, and after a vain effort or 
two to maintain his seat, the rider fell off with the bayonet and gun 
still in him. I supposed all three were killed, but after a little while 
the German slowly raised his head, and finding the enemy had re¬ 
treated to reform, he sprang up and ran with all force until he ar¬ 
rived on the river opposite our lines and then sprang in and swam 
across. When he struck dry land he shook the water from him 
like a spaniel, and half bewildered, said, “Where did my gun go 
to?” One of our boys coolly replied, “Guess you gave it to that 
Texas Ranger, and he’s carried it off.” The German stared at him 
a moment and then breaking into a half laugh, said, “By golly, I 
dinks dot is so.” 

Our regiment lay at Nashville a while and then moved south 
to Columbia, and thence to Shiloh. It was under General Buell, 
and our division had been ordered to form a junction with the 
army of General Grant at that place. It had been on the move all 
night and when it crossed the river at daylight on Sabbath morn¬ 
ing, found the army of General Grant, which had been fighting all 
the day before, in a bad condition. His left had been driven back 
close upon the landing. Our wounded and dying and dead con¬ 
fronted us in great numbers, and the confusion and suffering were 
indescribable. In order to place our division upon the line of 
battle it was compelled to pass through this mass of suffering hu¬ 
man beings and witness the appalling results of war. Many poor 
boys who had been lying since noon of the day before, with hor¬ 
rible gaping wounds, who had passed the night without shelter 
but the stars, looked beseechingly into the faces of Buell’s army as 
it passed, some crying for water, others for food and medical at¬ 
tendance. The scene was heartrending and brought a sense oi 
terror when they remembered that at least another day’s fight was 
upon them, and that they would possibly be in like condition before 
night fall. 


200 


War and Army Life. 


As our regiment passed along it was startled with the cry of 
one of these wounded soldiers exclaiming, “There goes a lot of my 
old Martins Ferry boys. God bless them.” The wounded com¬ 
panion who seemed to be taking care of him was holding him up 
in a sitting position. He called the boys over to him, and they 
instantly recognized our old farm hand of the VanPelt farm, John 
Campbell. He was wounded in both thighs and knew that death 
was but a matter of a few hours. Meeting with his old acquaint¬ 
ances seemed to give a degree of satisfaction to his dying hours. 
“Go in, boys,” he said, “we fought them all day yesterday. They’ve 
driven us back. There were too many of them for us. But go in, 
you’ll whip them. If we had had you here yesterday we would have 
licked the life out of them. But I am done for, so good-bye.” 

Our regiment passing on, stopped for a short time not far 
from where Campbell lay and he was subsequently sent to the hos¬ 
pital where I went to him. When I approached him he looked up 
with a dying smile on his face, and said, “Ha, my boy, I know 
you,” and with an effort reached out his hand. I was startled at 
the pallor on his countenance and knew in a moment he had but 
a few minutes to live. His hand was cold and clammy, and his 
old-time animation was gone. He grasped my hand tightly, con¬ 
sidering the little of life left, and the poor fellow clung to it as long 
as life remained. He had lost much blood, and it was the want of 
this whch seemed to have sapped the fountain of life. A cold 
glassiness seemed to be gathering in his eyes, slowly, sadly. “I 
have not seen you since I helped those colored people escape on 
Buckeye Run,” he said. “I had to leave old Belmont County and 
go elsewhere to get out of that job. I suppose it raised quite a 
sensation there. But tell me, did they escape entirely, and did they 
never get them?” I related to him rapidly, all that had happened, 
of Tilda living with us, of the marriage of Sam and Lucinda, and 
how anxious they were to find out where he was, and thank him 
for what he had done, how Aunt Tilda prayed for him every night 
and morning, how he was the hero of the neighborhood now, and 
all else that had taken place. His dying face took on a glow of 
satisfaction, and even joy. He asked me of Mose, and when I told 
him we had never heard from him, and how Aunt Tilda grieved 
over him, he said, “She will doubtless see him before very long. 
This war is going to free the slaves, and she will get to see her boy 


Bonnie Belmont. 


201 


again. I think no one can say I have not done my duty by these 
oppressed people. I will be dead within an hour, and I want you 
to give them all my love back there in old Belmont. I was glad 
to see some of you before I died. It is one of the few satisfactions 
accorded me in this life, and when I look back over it, I cannot say 
I am sorry to go. I have tried to do my duty to my fellow' man. I 
may have failed some in this, but I can’t help it now. It is the 
only religion I have ever practiced. I may have presented a rough 
exterior, but my heart is all right. I have tried to live a square life, 
and am not afraid to die.” 

“Do you believe in a God?” I said, “and a future state of hap¬ 
piness or punishment?” He replied slowly, “I have always be¬ 
lieved in a God. I likewise believe in a future state of happiness. 
I do not believe in the orthodox hell. 1 have too high a regard for 
God to believe He would be the author of such unreasonable 
cruelty, and He is the author of all things.” I talked with him 
while he was able, and he died with his hand in mine, looking me 
calmly in the face to the last. Campbell was a hero. He enlisted 
from principle, and died for the rights of others. So passed away 
one of the true heroes of this life, whose good deeds have never 
been heralded in song or story. 

“Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear. 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.” 

General Sherman’s characterization of war is correct. If it is 
not hell, it has many of its attributes. Shiloh, otherwise known as 
the battle of Pittsburg Landing, was the first really great battle in 
which our regiment participated. It was fought April 6 and 7, 1862. 
Grant had forty thousand troops, and Johnson and Beauregard, 
forty-five thousand. The Federal loss was thirteen thousand five 
hundred and the Confederate, fourteen thousand. 

It is hard to describe a battle. When one views the long line 
of soldiers, regiment after regiment forming into line, marks the 
buoyancy and determination of their countenances, observes their 
military precision and concerted tactical action, when he thinks of 
the high hopes animating each breast, that each may come through 


202 


War and Army Life. 


untouched and live to again see home and fireside, and yet, that in 
the next few hours one-tenth of that noble array will be cold in 
death, and one-fourth mangled and wounded, it is sufficiently ter¬ 
rible to contemplate, and he wonders why such splendid fellows are 
to be sacrificed, and why such a thing as war should for a moment 
be tolerated. He wonders why it is that with all our boasted civili¬ 
zation and education, we have not found some means to avert war. 

Men have become great and heroic in producing mechanisms 
for the purpose of destroying life, but where is the much de¬ 
sired and ever deserving hero who will invent a means to pre¬ 
vent war, or in other words, wholesale murder? How long- 
long will the barbarous dominate the intellectual in man? A ter¬ 
rible responsibility rests with the so-called statesman of the United 
States, both North and South, for not preventing the war of 1861-5. 
It could easily have been done had these statesmen been worth 
half the renown which history is wont to ascribe to them. The 
petty ambitions of their narrow souls could not look beyond, and 
see the one million corpses of battlefield and hospital, the rivers of 
blood, the fifty million crushed hearts, the widows’ weeds, the 
homeless orphans, the tortured and helpless animals, the four bil¬ 
lion war debts, and multiplied millions in pensions to be subsequently 
paid, all the results of their so-called statesmanship. If there be a 
judgment day, God’s mighty wrath will fall with fearful force upon 
the statesmen of 1861. 

An ordinary soldier in battle knows little of the general results 
until it is over. Lie has that portion of the line in his immediate 
sphere of action indelibly impressed upon his memory, but in most 
instances his attention has been confined to those points. Even to 
an ordinary onlooker not participating in the fight, the actions and 
movements of a large portion of an extended line of battle are 
unknown, so far as personal observation extends. Few battlefields 
are blessed with observation points from which to obtain a pano¬ 
ramic view of the whole field. Even from the lofty peaks of Look¬ 
out Mountain, the movements of Sherman on the left and the 
scenes, fighting and maneuvering on the opposite side of Mission¬ 
ary Ridge were not observable in the battle of Chattanooga. The 
line of battle at Shiloh was fully six miles long, extending along 
Lick Creek from its junction with the Tennessee, much of it being - 
timbered. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


203 


Occasional volleys of desultory firing had been going on at 
intervals during the night of the first day’s battle at Shiloh, which 
could be heard more distinctly as Buell’s men approached. Notwith¬ 
standing the reverses of the day before, Grant attacked the enemy 
early. But little attention had been paid to the dead or dying. 
In fact, there was no time for it. The ground fought 
over was mainly in the hands of the enemy. Our forces, as 
the slaughter went on, had contracted their lines and the left was 
doubled back upon the river and was protected by the gunboats on 
the Tennessee, which commanded a sweep up the creek, executing 
great slaughter by an enfilading fire on the ranks of the Confeder¬ 
ates. It was shocking to see the heaps of dead bodies along the 
bottom. In places one might walk on them without touching the 
ground for long distances. A heavy battle is most ordinarily 
opened by a terrible artillery duel, to develop the respective lines. 
The deep rumbling of the artillery wagons and caissons, the clatter 
of the horses’ hoofs, the blowing of the bugles, the rapid unlimber- 
mg and wheeling into line, to be repeated by the taking of new po¬ 
sitions of vantage when the enemy gets the range too closely, the 
different shouts and commands of the artillery officers, the rapid 
work of the men at the guns, to be soon enveloped in a cloud of 
smoke, unless a breeze be blowing, all tend to deeply engage the 
attention. When artillery is plentiful and heavily parked on both 
sides, this artillery duel becomes awful and effective. But ordinar¬ 
ily this is but the preliminary to the great storm which is ultimately 
to break with thundering reverberation all along the line. When 
one side or the other of the artillery lines is silenced, or both cease 
firing by a common consent, then the solid line of brave men press 
forward into full view. In their dash forward they are supported 
by the redoubled energy of their own artillery in their rear, firing 
over their heads into the line of the enemy. The opposing artillery 
mows them down in their advance as best they can, until they get 
within rifle shot, when the artillery retreats back of its line of infan¬ 
try lying in reserve, and the two lines meet in terrible conflict. One 
line may be so shattered as to fall back and reform, being replaced 
by a second and supporting column coming up behind. If the other 
side is likewise exhausted or shattered, a like proceeding occurs 
there. One side or the other retreats finally, or to form a new line 
of defense. Sometimes when an infantry charge is made, the op- 


204 


War and Army Life. 


posing artillery delays its retreat too long, when a desperate con¬ 
flict occurs between the two opposing infantry columns right 
among the guns, the one striving to capture, and the other to de¬ 
fend them. Care must be observed and firing cease on the part 
of the artillery of a charging line of infantry when the latter gets 
at close range, lest it kill as many of its own as of the opposing 
column. Sometimes when one side is demoralized, or hard pressed, 
a cavalry charge in the rear, or flank, is made with telling effect 
and hastens the general demoralization, and possible retreat or 
surrender. 




Bonnib Belmont. 


205 


Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 

O NE of the most daring and effective cavalry charges the 
world has ever known, not excepting the historic charge 
of the “light brigade,” was made at the battle of Gettys¬ 
burg by a portion of Kilpatrick’s cavalry, under General Farns¬ 
worth from the foot of Big Round Top up the road to Gettysburg 
and return, parallel with the line of battle and in rear of Pickett’s 
lines, when Pickett made his wonderful infantry charge which 
penetrated the Federal lines at Little Round Top. This famous 
cavalry charge has never been immortalized in story or song as it 
should have been. There is no charge like it, and it so demoralized 
the Confederates as to save the day. It was related to me by Mr. 
Frank Robinson, of Bridgeport, Ohio, an officer in General Custer’s 
command, a command noted for never missing a fight. Robinson 
was a brave and gallant soldier, was all through the war to its close, 
participating at the surrender of General Lee at Appomattox. He 
was probably in as many battles as any other soldier from Belmont 
County. General Kilpatrick, with his cavalry, was stationed in the 
woods on the left flank of the Federal army, near Big Round Top. 
When Pickett made his famous charge Kilpatrick determined the 
critical time had come, and decided to make a cavalry charge all 
along the rear of Pickett’s line. Turning to General Farnsworth, 
General Kilpatrick said, “General, I desire you to take a portion of 
this command and immediately make a charge along in the rear of 
the enemy toward Gettysburg. It was a most fearful thing to do, 
for the participants in that charge were as likely to be hit from the 
shells and musketry of the Federals as of the Confederates, and the 
line to be traversed was thick with the missiles of death. “General 
Kilpatrick,” said General Farnsworth, “are you aware that to make 
that charge means certain death to the whole command making 
it?” “General Farnsworth,” replied Kilpatrick, “if you are afraid 
to make that charge, I will do it.” “General Kilpatrick, where you 
can go, I can go. I am not afraid to make the charge. I am 
ready,” said the gallant general. Then began one of the most 
daring cavalry charges recorded in all history. They cut their way 


206 Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 

through phalanx after phalanx of Confederates hurrying to the as¬ 
sistance of Pickett, almost to Gettysburg, strewing the ground 
with the Confederates and their own comrades, horsemen and rid¬ 
ers, and when they found no outlet at the farther end, they whirled 
in their mad and crushing career, retracing the awfully bloody road 
they had come, cutting a swath like a reaper’s scythe through the 
Confederate columns, sending consternation into that army, and 
ultimately coming out where they had entered. The heroic Gen¬ 
eral Farnsworth fell dead among his comrades just as the charge 
was completed. But one-third of that noble band of sixteen hun¬ 
dred immortal heroes ever returned. Where is the poet to immor¬ 
talize in verse the wonderful charge of the gallant General Farns¬ 
worth and his sixteen hundred followers at Gettysburg? 

Captain Robinson was the owner of a very fine and tractable 
horse. Just before that charge an officer of higher grade asked him 
if he would not exchange horses until the charge was over, as his 
was somewhat fractious. He kindly consented. As they made a 
charge against a stone fence behind which was a Confederate 
line, the officer was shot dead and fell across the wall. His horse, 
true to the discipline he had received, went riderless through the 
remainder of the charge, coming out with the command, and was 
recovered by Captain Robinson. 

Another noble animal in that charge which had lost a fore leg, 
and whose rider had been killed, came out with the remainder of 
the command limping on three legs. The poor animal had to be 
shot. There were heroes who could not talk in that war, as there 
are in all wars. 


Many lines of battle have points of local designation indicative 
of incidents which happened during the conflict, or mark places of 
sanguinary struggle. One point on the left center at Shiloh where 
the dead lay almost as thick as leaves in autumn, and over which, 
at times, scarcely any one passed without being hit, was called the 
“hornet’s nest.” The slaughter at this place was fearful. The ar¬ 
tillery with the mad plunging horses attached, had ruthlessly passed 
over many of these bodies in a wild rush for place of vantage or 
retreat. The skulls of some were crushed, and limbs of others 
broken by the wheels of the heavy cannon, while the faces and 
forms of others were mangled by the hoofs of the horses. The 



Bonnie Belmont. 


207 


dead of both Federals and Confederates seemed about equal in num¬ 
ber, all intermingled, resting peacefully side by side. It was most 
pathetic to note the many young faces among the dead. Some 
were mere boys, and as one looked on their pale, almost childish 
countenances, he imagined a fond mother in a dear far away North¬ 
ern or Southern home, sitting at twilight with tear-laden eye won¬ 
dering, “where is my boy tonight?” Alas! dear mother, he sleeps 
dreamlessly under the little green hillock made for him by his com¬ 
rades forty-five years ago at the “hornet’s nest.” Perhaps worn out 
with weeping and longing for a step that never came, that tender¬ 
hearted mother has likewise been softly sleeping in the country 
churchyard of the soldier boy’s home. On earth separated—in im¬ 
mortality—re-united. 

As the sun was setting on the day of Buell’s arrival at Shiloh, 
the second great battle of the west had been fought and won by 
the United States troops. It was here the country first got a true 
glimpse of our future great commander and president, U. S. Grant, 
tie was suffering from an injury received in his foot the day be¬ 
fore; but notwithstanding this and the terrible scenes through 
which he had passed, I think the army never saw a more complacent 
and collected countenance. As they looked upon that face under 
such circumstances, they never afterwards had a fear but that he 
would be the great general of the war. This was certainly justified 
by subsequent history. Nevertheless, how liable human judgment 
is to error. 

My first impressions of General Sheridan were altogether un¬ 
favorable. I first saw him at Nashville, and I wondered why such 
a common looking individual could ever have secured a star upon 
his shoulder. I attributed it to possible political favoritism. He 
was small and rather spare at that time compared with his later 
years. I afterwards wondered why I could possibly have had such 
a misconception of the qualities and ability of this remarkable man. 

I have not the space in this book to go more fully into details 
of the war than to give a general chronological statement of a few 
of the leading battles and incidents of the war, and then pass on to 
that individual part connected with my own life and those of our 
neighborhood. 

The first battle of Bull Run was fought July 21, 1861, and won 
by Confederates. The Federal forces under McDowell numbered 


208 Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 

twenty-eight thousand, and the Confederates under Johnston and 

Beauregard, thirty-one thousand. 

General Grant captured Fort Henry, on the Tennessee River, 
February 6, 1862, and immediately invested Fort Donaldson, which 
he subsequently captured with fifteen thousand prisoners and many 
munitions of war, General Floyd, ex-secretary of war under Presi¬ 
dent Buchanan, and General Pillow, of Mexican fame, making their 
escape. 

The battle of Shiloh next followed, April 6 and 7, 1862, in a 
victory for the Federals. 

The battle of Gains Mills occurred June 27, 1862, with a victory 
for the Confederates. The Federals under Porter numbered twenty 
thousand, and the Confederates under R. E. Lee, thirty-five 
thousand. 

The battle of Second Bull Run was fought August 29 and 30, 
1862, between Generals Pope and Jackson, with forty thousand 
each, resulting in a victory for the Confederates. 

Perryville was fought October 8, 1862, and won by the Feder¬ 
als, although greatly outnumbered, the Federals’ loss being forty- 
three hundred and the Confederates’ many more. 

The battle of Murfreesboro, or Stone River, took place the 31st 
of December, 1862, and the 1st of January, 1863, Bragg having 
sixty-three thousand Confederates and Rosecrans forty-three thous¬ 
and Federals. In this battle our brother Robert, then on General 
Negley’s staff, had his horse shot under him while in full gallop 
in plain view of the line. He was supposed killed at first, as the 
horse plunging forward, fell, throwing his rider some distance over 
his head, and for a while stunning him so badly he could not rise. 
He was not struck, however, and immediately resumed his duties 
on a fresh horse. This battle was a victory for the Federals. 

The battle of Chancellorsville was fought by the forces of 
Hooker and Lee, May 1, 2, 3 and 4, 1863. In this battle there were 
sixteen thousand killed and forty thousand wounded. It was one 
of the bloodiest of the war. Stonewall Jackson was killed there. 

The battle of Gettysburg transpired July 1, 2 and 3, 1863, under 
Generals Meade and Lee, with eighty thousand each. The Fed¬ 
eral loss was twenty-eight thousand one hundred and ninety, and 
the Confederate, thirty thousand. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


209 

Vicksburg, under Pemberton, surrendered to Grant July 4, 

1863, with its army of twenty-five thousand. 

The battle of Chickamauga was fought September 19 and 20, 
18G3, Bragg having seventy thousand and Rosecrans fifty-five 
thousand. The Federal loss was sixteen thousand and the Confed¬ 
erate eighteen thousand, the Federals retreating to Chattanooga. 

The battle of Chattanooga, or Missionary Ridge and Lookout 
Mountain, continued through November 23, 24 and 25, 1863, re¬ 
sulting in a victory for the Federals, the forces being commanded 
by Grant and Bragg. 

The siege and battle of Knoxville occurred from November 17 
to 29, 1863, with the Federals victorious. 

The battle of the Wilderness was fought March 6-7, 1864, 
between the forces of Grant and Lee, with a check to the former. 

The series of battles of Dalton, or Rocky Face Ridge, occurred 
May 5 to 9, 1864, with ninety-nine thousand under Sherman, and 
fifty-five thousand under Johnson, intrenched. The latter with¬ 
drew. 

The battle of Resaca was fought May 14-15, 1864, Sherman 
having one hundred thousand and Johnson fifty-five thousand. 

Picketts Mills was fought May 27, 1864. 

Lost Mountain was fought June 1, 1864. 

The battle of Cold Harbor was fought June 1 to 12, 1864, 
Grant having one hundred and twenty thousand and Lee one hun¬ 
dred thousand men. The Federal loss was ten thousand and Con¬ 
federate eight thousand. 

The series of battles at Pine and Kenasaw Mountains were 
fought with almost constant fighting from June 14th to July 1, 

1864. Confederate General Polk was killed here. 

The battle of Peach Tree Creek, or Atlanta, was fought July 20 
to 22, 1864, Sherman having thirty thousand and Hood fifty thous¬ 
and. Atlanta capitulated September 2, 1864. 

The battle of Winchester was fought September 19, 1864, Sheri¬ 
dan and Early having forty thousand each. Sheridan was vic¬ 
torious. 

The battle of Franklin, Tennessee, was fought November 30, 
1864, by a portion of the army of Thomas, under Schofield, and 
Hood’s army. Hood lost fifty-five hundred and Schofield twenty- 


210 


Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 


three hundred. To the numbers engaged this was probably the 
bloodiest battle of the war. 

The battle of Nashville was fought by the forces of Thomas and 
Hood on the 14th and 15th of December, 1864. This was one of 
the most complete victories of the war, the number of killed and 
captured of the Confederates amounting to over twenty-six thous¬ 
and. The forces of Hood never existed as an army afterwards. 
General Thomas was one of the most remarkable men of the war, 
and has never received his proper meed of praise. He had the ca¬ 
pacity for commanding a large army. He was cautious, but uncon¬ 
querable. On the evening of the last day’s battle at Chickamauga, 
when some of the Federals were taken prisoners, a Confederate of¬ 
ficer rode up to them and said, “Who is that Yankee officer still 
fighting on the hill over there?” He was informed it was Thomas. 
“Well, that man has not sense enough to know when he is whipped. 
We’ve whipped that fellow two or three times today, and still he 
keeps on fighting,” said the officer. “You have not whipped one 
side of him, and will not, until he and his men are all dead,” was 
the reply. He was appropriately called “The Rock of Chicka¬ 
mauga.” 

On November 14, 1864, Sherman began his famous march to 
the sea from Atlanta. He reached Savannah on Christmas, left it 
in February, 1865, and after fighting the battles of Averysboro and 
Bentonville, received the surrender of Johnston’s army, Septem¬ 
ber 26, 1865. 

The siege and series of battles before Petersburg continued 
from June, 1864, to April, 1865. 

The battles and surrender at Appomattox occurred April 8, 
1865, and hostilities practically closed on the surrender of Johnston. 

I am aware I have not mentioned many hard fought battles 
and sanguinary struggles by the land forces. But these and our 
wonderful naval achievements are already sufficiently recorded in 
history, and I pass on to those events confined more particularly 
to the objects of this story. 

General Butler, at New Orleans, had issued orders, enlisting- 

7 o 

colored soldiers, and many thousand troops were added to the 
Union forces in this way. They crowded into the city in great 
numbers and with great alacrity, and many more were offered 
than were received. Mose could not stand the stampede and en- 



Col. James F. Charlesworth 
2jth O. V. /.; and also a hero of the Mexican 11'or, 






















Bonnie Belmont. 


211 


listed. His master had refused to join in the rebellion, and told 
all around him they were making a mistake. 

It is singular what a love exists in the human heart for free¬ 
dom—for liberty. Here was a good, kind slave owner, loved and 
respected by every one of his bondsmen. Mr. Copeland had always 
treated them kindly and fairly. Such was his reputation, that many 
unfortunates on the auction block, or when they discovered they 
were likely to be sold, had gone to him and begged him to become 
their purchaser. As a consequence he had become quite wealthy. 
In youth he had seen his days of extravagance and riotous living, 
but blessed with a good wife, daughter and one of the wealthy 
merchants in New Orleans, he had settled down and become a man 
of force and influence in his community. He had in him a good 
and generous heart, and was a man well educated and of excellent 
judgment. But the love of liberty in the human breast outweighed 
every other consideration in the minds of his slaves. All but a few 
superannuated ones left him and joined the great mass of refugees 
crowding into New Orleans. It was singular how quickly many 
of the plantations were depopulated and left desolate, with not a 
soul on them. Many of these afterward returned to the more hu¬ 
mane masters and took employment under the wage, or cropping 
system, which followed the war. The more inhuman masters 
were abandoned altogether by their slaves and were compelled to 
sell out, or were eventually broken up financially. 

Mose made a good soldier and was in several hard fought bat' 
ties. At the investment and siege of Mobile he was in the bloody 
charges upon the Spanish Fort and other entrenchments, lasting 
from April 4th to April 11th, 1865, and which resulted in the cap¬ 
ture of the city, with five thousand Confederates driven back to 
their second line of earth-works. Many of the Confederates were 
killed in their retreat over the open space between the two lines. 
The wounded and dead were thickly strewn there. It was certain 
death to any one venturing upon this intervening space. The 
wounded were exposed to a boiling sun from noon until night fall. 
Many and heartrending were the cries of the unfortunate and 
mangled victims, in full view of both lines. At a point in front of 
where Mose fought he saw a Confederate captain and a number of 
his men make a gallant stand until they were all mowed down. 
Toward the middle of the afternoon, the captain, who seemed 


212 


Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 


unable to do more, raised himself up to a sitting position quite 
frequently, motioning for help from the Confederate line.. Two 
attempts were made by his comrades to rescue him, but each time 
the rescuers were shot down. This did not lessen the efforts of the 
wounded captain, who kept raising up in a half-sitting position ap¬ 
pealing for help, and then exhaustedly falling back again. He kept 
crying, water! water! water! Just as the sun was setting, the Con¬ 
federate line in front was flanked out of position, and the Union 
soldiers made a rush across this space, capturing the breastworks 
of the enemy in front. When Mose came to where the Confeder¬ 
ate captain lay, the latter feebly, but unsuccessfully attempting to 
rise, said, “Won’t you, for God’s sake, give me some water?’’ Dis¬ 
torted as his face was with pain, Mose recognized him instantly. 
“I will, sir,” said Mose, and raising him up to a sitting position and 
supporting him with his left arm, he with his right hand held his 
canteen to the dying captain’s lips. He drank feebly, and yet 
greedily. It seemed he would never get enough. “There,” said he, 
“hold me until I rest a little now, won’t you, my boy?” “Yes, sir,” 
said Mose, as with one knee resting on the ground and the other 
against his back, he supported him while he took his last look at the 
setting sun. “Give me a little more water,” said the captain. 
“Had you not bettah let me gib you a drink of dis cold coffee? 
It will do you a powah of good,” said Mose. He nodded his head 
in assent. “Hab you any wo’d to send to your friends, Captain 
Maxwell?” said Mose. With a half surprised look even in his dying 
eves, he turned them up toward those of Mose, and faintingly said, 
“How do you know I am Captain Maxwell, and who are you?” 
“I am Mose Taylor, de boy you tried to buy at de Wheeling slave 
market,” said Mose. “But tell me, hab you no message to send to 
friends?” he replied. “No,” the dying man replied faintly, “I have 
no friends.” “Tell me ob my sistah Lucinda. Is she still living-?” 
said Mose plaintively. “I don’t know. She escaped from me at 
Wheeling into Ohio,” said Maxwell faintly, as he fell back almost 
exhausted. 

His eyes still rested on Mose with an open stare, and by the 
last rays of the setting sun, the latter saw the vacancy of death 
fast gathering in their glassy and impenetrable depth. Suddenly a 
quivering shudder and Maxwell’s soul had passed to its accounting. 
He was desperately wounded in both legs, with a mortal wound 


Bonnie Belmont. 


213 

in the bowels. Mose laid him gently on the ground, with a knap¬ 
sack for a pillow, and then passed on to his command. 

When Mose was mustered out of service, he took a boat at 
New Orleans, getting off at the Copeland plantation. As he passed 
from the landing to the farm buildings, everything gave evidence 
of neglect. The rich sugar fields were covered with grown-up 
cane, choked with a wilderness of weeds. No cultivated ground 
appeared except a small truck patch near the house, and even this 
was ragged and apparently half tilled. He slipped quietly around 
the great barn and stables, and of the seventy fine mules which 
filled the stalls before the war, not one was left. He passed over to 
the stable where the fine family carriage horses were formerly kept, 
but not one was there. His master’s old riding horse was the only 
one left. The cane buildings were empty, and the grinding mills 
and sugar vats were neglected and rusted. The fine feathered pea¬ 
fowls were no longer to be seen, and of the well-filled barnyard of 
chickens, there only remained an old clucking hen and a crippled 
rooster, which was dozing in the shade under a weather-beaten old 
cart in the barnyard. 

He passed on to the negro quarters in the rear of the mansion. 
Every negro shanty was deserted, and not even one of the many 
little “Ninnies,” who once sported around their doors could be seen. 
He saw smoke curling up from the chimney of the wash-house, and 
some freshly washed clothes hanging on the line, and he reflected 
it was Monday. He passed over, if haply he might find just one 
of his old slave companions, even if she be only one of the old 
female house servants. As he came near he saw by a side view a 
woman bending over a wash-tub hard at work. She raised up to 
wring out a sheet, and while a sun bonnet hid her face, Mose could 
see her hands were white. Mose drew closer, and with hat re¬ 
moved, politely said, “Good morning, mam!” She turned upon 
him for a moment, then threw up her hands in joy and exclaimed, 
“Blessed heavens, Mose, is that you?” “Yes, missus, bless your 
heart, it is Mose, but what are you spoiling your hands in de wash- 
tub foaa?” said Mose. “Ah, my dear boy, there is no one else to do 
it now, and you know we must keep clean,” said Mrs. Copeland. 
“But here, I must tell Mr. Copeland!” And she ran to the house 
crying, “Mose has come Mr. Copeland! Mose has come back!” 
Copeland made his appearance, and grasping Mose by both hands 


214 


Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 


looked into his face and said, “Mose, I told my wife if any of them 
would come back it would be you. How line you look in that Fed¬ 
eral uniform, sir. So you have been in the army? Now, Mose, 
look around and see what a desolation this war has wrought. You 
know I told these fellows they were making a mistake, but they 
would not believe me. I told them I would have nothing to do with 
their rebellion; that it would ruin them, but that if they could 
stand it, I could, but you see to what it has brought even me. Of 
all the negroes which I had there is not one left to hand me a cup 
of water. There is no money in the county, ana all the slaves are 
now freed, and have either flocked to the cities and towns or gone 
North. I am thankful for one thing, however, that these fellows 
around me here who brought on this war and would not listen to 
reason, and denounced me so roundly, are much worse off 
than I am, and possibly now see I was right. I have some Federal 
money, which I kept with a friend in the North, and could soon 
raise a crop, but bless you, there is no one to do the work, though 
i am ready and willing to pay for it.” “I saw a number of deni in 
New Orleans who would like to come back, but dey am afeard you 
are angry at dair goin’ away, and dat you’ll not let deni.” said Mose. 
“Fll tell you what Fll do, Mose, if you’ll go down there and bring 
them up, Fll not only be glad to receive them, but I will provide 
the money for the teams and implements, let them put in a crop on 
the shares and keep them while it is growing.” 

An arrangement was entered into, by which Copeland and 
Mose took the next steamer to New Orleans, returning in a few 
days with half the former slaves and the necessary mules and im¬ 
plements, and Copeland was one of the first planters in the Missis¬ 
sippi valley to begin cultivation after the war, under the new 
regime, with Mose for a foreman. 

The war sounded the death note of slavery. All great revolu¬ 
tions and changes have their origin with the common people. 
Washington Irving says it is an evidence of civilization when men 
begin to want something. Lincoln’s emancipation proclamation 
was forced by the sentiment and demands of the common soldiery. 
They quickly saw the remedy and demanded its application. 
While Lincoln’s great sympathetic heart went out to the African 
bondsmen, and he of his own inclination would have freed them 
long before, yet he felt he was not the ruler, but the servant of the 


Bonnie Belmont. 


215 


people, sworn to obey their mandates, and until they called he 
could not act. But he knew, sooner or later, it must come. He 
saw already the finger of omnipotence writing the doom of slavery 
on the hearts and minds of his people; and with the pre-science and 
patience of a sage, he awaited the propitious moment designed and 
decreed by that omnipotence. 

Owing to the deplorable condition in which our family was 
left on the death of our father and absence of the boys, and the 
broken condition of my health from exposure, I was compelled to 
come home to settle up the affairs of the estate. We found a por¬ 
tion of the family sick, and the farm badly neglected. 
Wherever one turned the picture presented showed the absence of 
the masterly hand of our father. Our mother’s face had taken on a 
look of bereavement and sorrow. She realized she was a widow, 
with a large family half reared, her sons in the war, a heavy mort¬ 
gage on the farm, and a hard struggle ahead. That mortgage ulti¬ 
mately swept the farm into the hands of strangers. The struggles 
of our family from the war were not confined to the picket line and 
the rifle pit. A fast fading homestead was the phantom picture 
viewed by weeping eyes in the blaze of the old fireplace during the 
long winter nights. The portentous hooting of the owl from the 
old apple tree over the smokehouse, filled the souls of the inmates 
of that once happy mansion with an ominous dread of separation 
and broken family ties. The sepulchered tones of the croaking 
frogs by the little rivulet from the spring, added an additional 
gloom and the piping of the cricket upon the hearth brought a cor¬ 
responding sense of loneliness. Not even Aunt Tilda's ever cheer¬ 
ful face could break the spell of gathering gloom. 

So I found them when I returned—and, though the old place 
took on quite a degree of cheer after the return of the boys for a 
few years and before it was sold, still it was never again the same, 
and night and separation finally settled down upon that home 
forever. 

Jack’s return near the close of the war, was a joyous one. 
Minerva was glad to see him. He was noAV of age, and had taken 
on more manhood and dignity of character. She had ac¬ 
quired a more matured, womanly appearance, and he imag¬ 
ined he could detect in her face a slight trace of anxiety. This rap¬ 
idly disappeared, and on the occasion of their first stroll to the. 


216 Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 

Chandler home she was never more cheerful. “I am so rejoiced to 
see you alive again, though you do appear so thin and broken, I 
can scarcely keep from exhibiting it to all,” she said. “Do you fear 
tc let others see you are gratified on this account?” Jack replied. 
“Why do you ask?” she queried. “You have always been so re¬ 
served on this point, it is the most natural thing for me to ask,” he 
said. “I shall have to differ from you,” she replied. “Only this 
evening mother admonished me not to make my joy at your return 
too pronounced. She saw it in my actions and changed feelings. 
She ventured the hope I would take on a little animation and a 
new appetite now that you have returned.” “So far as appetite is 
concerned, I wish I could impart a little of mine. It seems as 
though I’ve had nothing to eat since I left,” Jack rejoined. “We 
shall feed you up, for I am going to take you into my care now in 
more ways than one,” she laughingly said. 

We found a shade of sadness on the faces of Mr. and Mrs. 
Chandler. The war was not over yet, and their anxiety for their 
two children, Charles and John, who were still in the war, was 
making an impression on them, as it was on the faces of all parents 
having sons in that terrible contest. Indeed, I was impressed with 
a sense of abject loneliness on my arrival home in the death of our 
father and the continued absence of my brothers in the war. This 
loneliness was not dispelled, but rather augmented by a visit among 
the neighbors. But few gray-haired men could be seen anywhere, 
everything in the neighborhood appeared changed, and a deep 
quiet had settled on all around. I can think of no occasion more 
solemn and impressive than the autumn evenings on old Pinch Ridge 
toward the close of the war. The blessed relief to Jack in this dis¬ 
quieting state of feeling, was the satisfaction derived from being 
again with Minerva. Mr. Chandler remarked that it drove away a 
portion of their gloom to see Minerva, Jack and me back again, and 
they hoped it would only be a forerunner of the return of the boys 
and a happy reunion of all. It is singular how one friend will miss 
another. Charlie and I had been such confidential, boon compan¬ 
ions, that to be at Chandler’s without seeing him was half a disap¬ 
pointment, rather than a pleasure, and I came away almost dissatis¬ 
fied with my trip. Of course, Minerva was everything to Jack now, 
her whole demeanor was that of tenderness and solicitude for 
him. There was a kindly expression in her eye, a grace of deferen- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


217 


tial preference in her movements toward him, a confiding pressure 
of the hand, which were unmistakable evidences of her love. These 
ali sent thrills of joy to his soul, and under their sweet and en¬ 
chanting influence he felt a strange desire to continue in their joy 
and proscrastinate the hour when he should again ask for her hand. 
He wanted to live on in that expectative love dreamland as long 
as possible. He was miserly in his love. He was selfish in it. It 
never occurred to him that in one rash act all might be lost. 

Minerva was a noble creature. Her animations were always 
so exalted. Her every instinct was charitable and God-like. She 
knew not envy nor meanness. She was highly sensitive to rectitude. 
Her refinement and tenderness challenged each other. Her judg^ 
ment was always correct and far-reaching. As I think of it today, 
I am impressed she ultimately knew Jack better than he knew him¬ 
self. As I look upon her exalted character now, near my sunset 
of life, the blessed words of George Elliot come to me with hopeful 
application: 

“O may I join the choir invisible, 

Of those immortal dead who live again 
In minds made better by their presence; live 
In pulses stirred to generosity, 

In deed of daring rectitude, in scorn 
Of miserable aims that end with self, 

In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, 

And with their mild persistence urge men's minds 
To vast issues. 

To so live in heaven; 

May I reach that purest heaven—to be to other souls 
The cup of strength in some great agony.” 

For more than a year after my return, while administering 
upon and settling up the estate of our father, my leisure moments 
were joyfully and pleasantly spent with Minerva and Jack. Our 
strolls, drives and horseback rides were frequent, and our many 
quiet evenings together made up the measure of a blessed year’s 
enjoyment never to be forgotten. 

One afternoon at her request, we all drove by way of the 
VanPelt mansion, up Glens Run to the old Cope mill, and after 


2 l8 


Charge of the Sixteen Hundred. 


viewing with interest the secret retreat of Lucinda in her flight, 
which, by the way, had now become an open secret, continued our 
drive to Colerain down the old plank road to her home, ar¬ 
riving in time for tea. This subsequently became one of their 
favorite drives, sometimes varied by a trip to Trenton, Mt. Pleas¬ 
ant, St. Clairsville, or other points. After tea we attended an even¬ 
ing party at our friends, Mr. and Mrs. Woods’. At this party we 
met a Dr. Moore, who had been in the vicinity for some months, 
claiming to be a Union refugee driven from Eastern Virginia by 
ihe persecutions of the rebels, who despoiled him of his property 
and attempted to take his life. He claimed to be a Mason, and 
was taken up by that order and assisted to a medical practice in 
Bridgeport. He was apparently a finely educated, pious, urbane 
gentleman. In fact he was quite polished, stately and fine looking. 
He was so scrupulously pious, he refused to indulge in dancing or 
a social game of cards. He subsequently married a most 
estimable lady in or near, Smithfield, Ohio, but one evening 
left Bridgeport under a cloud and was never heard of again 
by his devoted wife, or anyone else in the vicinity. He was evi¬ 
dently a man with a history. Before his marriage his preference 
for Minerva was quite marked. He had contrived to have his ex¬ 
pressed admiration for her brought to her knowledge. With that 
strange instinct which amounted almost to divination, she had read 
him like a book. She was as cold to him as an icicle. I conceived 
a dislike for him the first time we met, as did also Jack, and I 
think he observed it. However, our conduct toward him was ever 
respectful and polite, for he was at least ten years our senior. His 
manner toward Jack was exalted and overbearing. He tried to 
make it quite pronounced in the presence of Minerva, and on the 
evening of Woods’ entertainment his conduct toward Jack was 
notably obnoxious. Jack concealed his feelings from the other 
guests by a courtly demeanor, though his cheeks flushed with sup¬ 
pressed indignation. At a moment when he knew Jack could 
hear it, he stepped up to Minerva, and in his soft, musical voice, 
though in such manner and distinctness as that many could hear, 
said, “Miss Patterson, some three or four couples are going out for 
a moonlight stroll on the lawn, will you afford me the great pleas¬ 
ure of your company in doing likewise?” Minerva very coldly and 
politely replied, “Excuse me, doctor, I believe I prefer a half 


Bonnie Belmont. 


219 


hour’s amusement at Author Cards with Mr. and Mrs. Woods, if I 
am so fortunate as to prevail upon Mr. Salisbury here to become my 
partner.” “Most certainly and with the greatest of pleasure,” Jack 
rejoined, as she took his arm and both moved to the table, where 
they were subsequently joined by Mr. and Mrs. Woods. The cut 
was so completely direct and public that it was crushing. The doc¬ 
tor knew his status with Minerva ever after that evening. “I 
wished to resent the insolent manner in which he has treated you 
this evening, and which you have borne so gentlemanly,” she softly 
whispered in Jack’s ear, as leaning on his arm he escorted her to 
the card table. “You noticed it then?” Jack rejoined. “Most as¬ 
suredly! I believe I am more indignant than you,” she replied. “I 
do not know that you are, Minerva. He and I will have an adjust¬ 
ment of this later on,” Jack said. “Not by any means! Not one 
bit of it!” she answered quickly and anxiously. “Do you not know 
it would be a lasting disgrace? What is the use of sustaining an ele¬ 
vated and manly bearing in the presence of company as you have 
tonight, only to surrender it in private? Such nobility is a hollow 
mockery. It is highly colored, superficial nonsense. Now, prom¬ 
ise me this will not happen, or I will not have a moment’s further 
pleasure this evening.” Of course Jack promised her, and this was the 
end of it. 

On our way home that evening, Minerva said, addressing me, 
“You remember before going to war, the pleasant hour we spent 
on your grandfather’s porch one evening, when he related to us the 
story of your ancestors and some incidents of the early settlers in 
this vicinity, among them the battle of Fort Henry and the daring 
exploit of the romantic young school miss, Elizabeth Zane? As 
Jack has asked me to take a drive next Saturday afternoon, suppose 
we all visit the grave of Elizabeth Zane, and that of your grand¬ 
mother at the Walnut Grove cemetery in Martinsville. Your grand¬ 
mother was a Pierce and related to ex-President Pierce, I believe?” 
“Yes,” I rejoined, “she was a cousin. I am glad you have suggested 
it, and shall be glad to go.” 


220 


Elizabeth Zane. 


Elizabeth Zane. 

O N the afternoon in question, as we passed along the Ridge 
road leading from the Tavern past our grandfather’s and 
the VanPelt mansion, Minerva inquired, “Are we not near 
the home of Elizabeth Zane and the place where she died?” 
“Yes,” I replied. “This is it east of and adjoining our grandfath¬ 
er’s farm. It is now known as the McGlen farm. It was formerly 
owned by Jacob Clark, the husband of Elizabeth Zane, and it was 
here she died in 1828, at the age of sixty-three. She was born on 
the south side of the Potomac, in Westmoreland County, Virginia, 
at what is now the little town of Woodsfield. Jacob Clark 
subsequently sold to Jacob VanPelt, and it for a time became 
a part of the VanPelt farm. It was afterward sold to Edward 
McGlen. The first old log schoolhouse stood on the VanPelt farm 
close by the corner of the Clark farm, and the gate opening into it 
just where we are now riding.” “Is that house the one in 
which she resided?” “No, it is gone, and this one replaces it. 
The first log schoolhouse was built here in 1816, in the woods.” 
“Was not the VanPelt farm formerly the property of the Lee heirs, 
one of whom is the present Confederate general, Robert E. Lee?” 
inquired Minerva. “A portion of it came from the Lee heirs, as 
did also the Chandler and Woods farms, as well as our own, as I 
now recollect, three sections of land here having been granted to 
the father of General Robert E. Lee for military services.” 

Our good friend, John Lee VanPelt, son of Jacob, was named 
after General Robert E. Lee. Lie owned much land in this section, 
and always stopped at VanPelt’s when out here from Alexandria, 
Va., collecting rents and payments on land, VanPelt being his 
agent here in these matters. 

The VanPelt residence was then a log building and stood 
down by the spring and the old pear tree at the foot of the orchard 
there where we school boys used to get water and incidentally to 
steal pears. On one of General Lee’s visits here, when the little 
namesake was a mere tot just learning to walk, some one of the 



. 






















































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• . 













Ebenezer Martin 

Founder of Martinsville, now City of Martins Ferry, O. 






Bonnie Belmont. 


221 


family called him by name. Lee noticed it and inquired where he 
got his name. He was informed the name was for him. Lee said 
nothing until the next morning, and when about to leave, said, 
“VanPelt, did you really name that boy for me?” “I certainly did,” 
said VanPelt. “Then let me say,” replied Lee, “I have here some 
notes still remaining against you for this land I have sold you, 
not yet due. I am going to give this boy these notes. When he 
arrives at full age, I want you to pay them to him with accrued 
interest. If you will agree to do this, I will hand them over.” It 
was agreed to and the farm released. When Jacob VanPelt died, it 
would have practically absorbed the whole farm, but John Lee 
waived his right, taking no more than the others, it being that part 
east of the road. Pie was a liberal-hearted, noble fellow, and this 
act was but typical of the man. He married Miss Rebecca Martin, 
whose father, Ebenezer Martin, married a daughter of Elizabeth 
Zane, and who laid out the town of Martinsville on his land, now 
Martins Ferry. 

During the war, one William Miller, who was a First West 
Virginia Cavalryman, was taken prisoner by the Confederates, 
charged with being a spy. He was taken before General Lee, who 
asked him who he was and where he lived. On being told in Ohio, 
near Martinsville, he was asked whom he knew on the hills sur¬ 
rounding that town. Among others he mentioned Jacob VanPelt. 
He was asked the names of VanPelt’s children. Miller named 
them, among them John Lee, as he was always known and called, 
Miller having enlisted from the Ohio side where he lived. When 
he mentioned John Lee, the general asked him if the latter was in 
the army. Miller replied he did not know. General Lee told him 
he might go, and to take his kind regards to John Lee, and to tell 
him if he was in the service and ever got captured, to ask to be 
brought before him. Miller declared this saved his life. Miller 
knew nothing of the namesake affair, and was not even then told 
of the land matter. 

WHiat a surcease from the strifes and anxieties of life a grave¬ 
yard is. In the upper end of W^alnut Grove the dead of recent gen¬ 
erations lay peacefully and quietly side by side. Lower down, the 
Indian mound, at the time we were there, covered the giant dead of 
a race of people long since extinct. No matter how many ages in¬ 
tervened between the deaths and burials of these two races, their 


222 


Elizabeth Zane. 


silence was all the same, their sleep equally profound. How sug¬ 
gestive this endless silence of the dead: 


“They loved—but the story we cannot unfold; 

They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 

They grieved—but no wail from their slumbers will come; 

They joyed—but the tongue of their gladness is dumb, 

’Tis the wink of an eye; ’tis the draught of a breath 

From the blossom of health to the paleness of death.” 

—William Knox. 

Inside the brick wall, in the southwest corner, we found the 
grave of Elizabeth Zane, pointed out to me by our grandfather, 
who knew her well. Nothing but a little raised mound of earth 
marked her resting place. “What a shame no monument has ever 
been erected to this truly great heroine. It is certainly a severe 
criticism on our patriotism,” said Minerva. “That duty remains 
for a more appreciative generation,” I replied. “What was her per¬ 
sonal appearance and social characteristics?” inquired Minerva. 
“Our grandfather, who was about four years her senior, 
says she was tall, willowy, graceful and good looking. She was 
entirely fearless, always enterprising, very athletic and could run 
like a deer. She was a dead shot with a rifle and a fine horseback 
rider. With another female companion about as daring, she was 
one day taking a hunt on horseback, near what is now Tiltonville, 
about five miles above Martins Ferry, up the Ohio, when they came 
across a large wildcat. Elizabeth Zane, without dismounting, shot 
it dead from a large tree, bringing it home with them. 

“Our grandfather represented her as a woman of considerable 
polish and highly independent. She acquired these qualities no 
doubt in the east, where she was born and raised, and in the board¬ 
ing school at Philadelphia. At the same time he described her as 
always cool and collected, and ever ready to take things as she 
found them. Of a controlling mind, she believed there was always 
some way in overcoming all obstacles. He regarded her as a re¬ 
markable woman, and said she grew somewhat stout in her later 
years. She died in the latter part of 1828, on the farm adjoining 
our grandfather’s, at about the age of sixty-three.” “What did he 
say as to Mollie Scott being the one who carried the powder at 


William J. Rainey 

Multimillionaire Coke Producer, and Able Financier. 









Bonnie Belmont. 


223 


the siege of Fort Henry?'’ said Minerva. “He grew highly indig¬ 
nant when it was suggested, denouncing it as absurd and ridiculous. 
He said that from the time that act was performed by Elizabeth 
Zane, up until recent years, no one had ever disputed she was the 
heroine of that dangerous exploit. That he had more than once 
talked with her and Mollie Scott about it, and also with others in 
the fort at the time and with Mrs. Cruger herself, and all had made 
the same statement. Our grandfather was, before and after the 
siege, a frequenter of the fort on his hunting and scouting expedi¬ 
tions. Neither Mollie Scott nor any of her descendants have ever 
claimed she carried the powder.” “She was married twice, if I 
am correctly informed?” said Minerva. “Can you tell me of her 
descendants ?” “So far as I know,” I replied. “Her first husband 
was a Scotch gentleman by the name of Ephraim McLaughlin, by 
whom she had five children, all daughters, the eldest, Mary, married 
Edward Hadsel, of Marshall County, West Virginia; Sarah mar¬ 
ried a wealthy gentleman by the name of Pauli, in Natchez, Missis¬ 
sippi; Rebecca married George Brown, of Martins Ferry, Ohio; 
Miriam married a Mr. Morgan, and the youngest, Hanna, was the 
wife of Ebenezer Martin, the founder of Martins Ferry, formerly 
Martinsville, and our friend, Miss Kate Martin, is one of their chil¬ 
dren. After the death of Mr. Martin’s first wife, Hanna, he mar¬ 
ried Minerva Zane, who was a daughter of Jonathan Zane. She is 
the mother of Rebecca Martin VanPelt, John Lee YanPelt, Isaac Mar¬ 
tin, Lucian Martin and Mrs. Will Wood. 

“Elizabeth Zane’s second husband was Jacob Clarke, who. was 
well-to-do and who survived her a number of years. There were 
two children by this marriage. Catherine and Ebenezer. Catherine 
was the mother of Jacob Thomas, of the firm of Stone & Thomas, 
merchants of the City of Wheeling, and Mr. Thomas Stone, of that 
firm, married her daughter. Elizabeth. Ebenezer Clarke married a 
Miss Hayward, and by that union had many children. One of their 
sons. Capt. Taff Clarke, was a soldier in the war with Mexico and 
also in the war of 1861. Another, Ebenezer, was also in the last 
named war, and Daniel Clarke, of Martins Ferry, is likewise their 
son. 

(Note.—Daniel Clarke, now deceased, was subsequently mayor 
of Martins Ferry. His family still reside in that city. Two of his 
daughters, Miss Nora and Miss Verne, taught in our public schools 


224 


Elizabeth Zane. 


His son, Roy Clarke, was a United States soldier in the recent Cuban 
war.) 

After visiting the grave of our grandmother we crossed the 
ferry, taking a drive to McCulloch's leap on the National pike, just 
at the top of the hill east of Wheeling. From there we visited 
“Indian Rock,” on the south side of Wheeling Creek, between 
Reymann’s brewery and the Hempfield railroad bridge crossing the 
creek. The rock is now broken away and the secret cavern in it is 
much less marked. This creek was called by the Indians 
“Kanawana.” 

“I wish you would tell me of the incident connected with 
Indian Rock,” said Minerva, as we drove toward it. “I will relate 
it as told me by our grandfather, who was a younger co-temporary 
with Louis Wetzel. It appears the people at Fort Henry and in 
Wheeling had frequently in the early morning heard the gobble of 
a wild turkey over in the direction of this rock, which was then a 
dense woods extending over the hill clear down to the present 
north market house. Some had gone out, but were unable to 
secure the turkey. At length one had gone, the crack of a gun had 
subsequently been heard, but the hunter never returned. Still the 
gobble of the turkey could be heard each morning. About this 
time, Louis Wetzel, coming in from one of his long, solitary hunts, 
was informed of the strange incident. He quietly remarked, “I 
think I can bring that turkey.” He started out after dark. The 
next morning the gobble of the turkey was cut short by the sharp 
crack of a gun, and soon after Wetzel came in with the scalp of an 
Indian dangling at his belt. The rock was known to Wetzel, and 
his cunning instinct told him it was not a turkey. He concealed 
himself where he could have a commanding unobserved view of the 
hole in the rock, and waited until day was just breaking, when the 
head of an Indian appeared and the gobble began. A ball from 
Wetzel’s unerring rifle laid him dead in the rock. The body of 
the white victim, scalped and mangled, was recovered and brought 
to the fort.” “Do you say the hill was timbered clear down to the 
market house?” inquired Tack. “Yes,” I replied, “this was the case 
at the time of the siege and battle of Fort Henry. 

“A very fine spring of pure water gushed out at the foot of the 
hill near the edge of this woods something over one hundred feet 
from the market house. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


225 


‘“This National pike, on which we are now riding, was finished 
to Wheeling in 1817, though the first stake for work on it on the 
Ohio side was not driven until 1824, so I am informed by our neigh¬ 
bor, James Brown, who certainly has great recollection as to many 
of these old events. 1 am informed by him, that in 1824, 
Lafayette made a visit by boat from New Orleans to Wheeling, 
and took dinner at a great banquet of its citizens, held in the woods 
on top of the hill at ‘McCulloch’s leap.’ Also, that in the campaigns 
of 1840-1844, the Whigs held their meetings in the woods on the 
north end of the hill, and the Democrats on the south end, and that 
in 1844 he saw eight soldiers of the Revolutionary war on the 
stand at a Whig meeting, one soldier exhibiting the bridle, spurs, 
pistol and saber which he used in the battle of Brandywine.” 

The afternoon not being quite ended when we arrived at Min¬ 
erva’s home, we continued our drive to the Mountain View, or 
Blackford schoolhouse, as we had not visited it since the days of 
our literary society, before the war. It was a sacred place to us all, 
and many dear memories were connected with it, and those we 
used to meet with there. As we arrived at the gate opening into 
the Albert Brown farm from the pike, we stopped for a few mo¬ 
ments. “Here,” said I, “on our left just opposite this gate, in the 
Morris Cope field, which was then a woods, James Brown informs 
me they built the first log schoolhouse of this district in 1816. It 
was built close to the road here by voluntary subscription and con¬ 
tribution of material and labor. He informs me there were two 
others built of logs intervening in dates between then and 1856, 
when the brick schoolhouse up there was constructed, and one was 
built upon the site of the other on our right hand side of the road, 
about half-way between this gate and that present brick. I re¬ 
member the last log one very distinctly myself. Brown also in¬ 
forms me he saw General Lee when he was here in 1840 trying to 
sell the Chandler and Woods tracts.” 

After driving around the old schoolhouse and resting under the 
oak shade, we returned to Minerva’s for tea, and immediately there¬ 
after I took my leave. It was another May evening, a perfect coun¬ 
terpart of that one in which Jack bade her good-bye for the war, 
and the apple trees were again in blossom. After tea and a little 
stroll to and from the Woods’ mansion, they seated themselves on 
the rustic seat under the self-same apple tree. 


226 


Elizabeth Zane. 


“I have been thinking,” said Minerva, “after which I have seen 
and heard and witnessed today, of the strange incidents and eventu¬ 
alities of life, how the principle of life is wrapped up in, and depend¬ 
ent on that of death. A grain of wheat is sown and dies, that life 
augmented a hundred fold may spring from it. The flower fades 
and dies, but an increased beauty appears in the spring. Eliza¬ 
beth Zane and her revolutionary compeers are gone, but what com¬ 
forts their noble struggles have brought to us. These sacrifices of 
life, home and family affection now being made by our boys in the 
war just closing, and the sorrows of dear ones at home, are the 
rich libations poured out that life and happiness may be more beau¬ 
tiful to those to follow after us. Does it not strike you as strange?” 
“Yes,” Jack replied, “and the germ of life, or immortality, wrapped 
up in it, is beyond all human comprehension. Man can form a 
grain of wheat, perfect in all its constituent qualities, quantities and 
shape, so that to mortal eye and acumen it is absolutely perfect and 
could not be told from the natural. But plant it, and that is the 
last of it; while a grain produced from nature planted by its side 
quickens and springs into life, producing a golden harvest. The 
principle of life is not there. God holds that in His own keeping. 
I know a poem illustrative of that strange feature which you have 
suggested, of life springing from death.” “Will you kindly repeat 
it?” said Minerva. “So far as I can remember,” he replied. 

“Have you heard the tale of the Aloe plant 
That grows in the sunny clime? 

By humble growth of a hundred years 
It reaches its blooming time, 

And then, a wondrous bud at its crown, 

Breaks into a thousand flowers; 

This floral queen in its beauty seen 
Is the fruit of the tropical bowers; 

But the plant to the flower is a sacrifice, 

For it blooms but once, and in blooming dies. 

Have you further heard of the Aloe plant 
That grows in the sunny clime, 

How every one of its thousand flowers 
That spring in the blooming time, 

Is an infant plant that fastens its roots 


Bonnie Belmont. 


227 


In the place where it falls on the ground, 

And fast as they fall from the dying stem, 

Grow lively and lovely around? 

By dying, it liveth a thousand fold 

In the young which spring from the death of the old. 

Have you heard the tale of the Pelican, 

The Arab’s giemel-el-bar, 

Which dwells in the African solitude 
Where the birds that live lonely, are? 

Have you heard how it tenderly loves its young, 

And fondly toils for their good? 

It brings them water from fountains afar, 

It fishes the sea for their food; 

In famine, it feeds them what love can devise, 

The blood of its bosom—and in feeding them, dies. 

Have you heard the tale they tell of the Swan? 

That strange white bird of the lake? 

He noiselessly floats on the silvery wave, 

He silently sits in the brake. 

For he saves his song ’till the end of life, 

And then, in the calm, still even, 

Mid the glowing light of the coming night 
He sings as he soars into heaven. 

And his blessed notes fall back from the skies! 

’Tis his only song, and in singing, he dies. 

You have heard these songs, 

Shall I tell you of one, a nobler, a better than all? 

Shall I tell you of Him whom the heavens adore? 

Before Whom the hosts of them fall? 

How He left the realms and anthems above 
For earth in its wailings and woes, 

And suffered the pain and shame of the cross 
To die for the life of His foes? 

O, Prince of the Noble! O, Sufferer divine! 

What sorrow and sacrifice equal to Thine!” 

“What a delightful poem! Who is the author of it?” inquired 
Minerva. “It is truly beautiful,” Jack replied, “but I am unable to 


228 


Elizabeth Zane. 


give the author. I have tried to ascertain, but have failed. Some 
one has suggested it is from the Arabic and yet, I can hardly think 
so, as Christ is not recognized in their religion—if I am correctly 
informed.” “It is hardly probable,” she rejoined, “and yet there 
are some features about it that would incline one to that opinion.” 
“We must look it up, for it will be a criticism on us not to know 
and give credit to the author of such a classical production.” “Now 
tell me,” she continued, “I learn from your mother you go to St. 
Clairsville to study law? When do you go?” “I shall go on next 
Tuesday, unless my plans are changed,” he replied. “I have a 
matter or two to attend to before leaving, and the most important 
and nearest to my heart and happiness I desire to settle tonight.” 
He said this as he looked Minerva full in the face in the bright 
moonlight. Continuing, he said: “Ought not more than a year’s 
silence and reflection beyond the time you have so generously al¬ 
lotted me, be sufficient to arrive at a well matured judgment, and at 
the same time suggest a sufficient modesty and patience in waiting 
ability, not to say good nature, to permit me again to renew my 
offer of love and ask if you will not be my wife?” She looked 
straight at him, laid her hand confidingly in his, and said : “I can 
answer you now. I could have answered you a year ago. I recip¬ 
rocate your love. I will become your wife.” That was the hap¬ 
piest moment of his existence. His cup of joy was indeed full. 
Clasping her hand in his, he pressed upon her lips the second kiss 
of their lives, in that beautiful May evening under the apple blos¬ 
soms. “Now, Minerva,” he said, “if you could have answered me a 
year ago, why did you not do it?” “It would have been immodest 
to have done so,” she replied. “I gave you the time in the first 
instance in which to fully mature your judgment, you know, after 
becoming your own man. Let us assume your judgment of man¬ 
hood on this highly important question to you, might not have been 
that of your earlier youth. In that case, don’t you see, you were 
free to act and need not have pressed the question further? In¬ 
deed, I had already begun to imagine you had changed your mind. 
Only think of it! here you have waited more than a year after the 
time given you, and yet you almost became angry with me more 
than four years ago because I would not answer you then, and 
when neither of us was of age and capable of becoming the ‘high 
contracting parties,’ as you lawyers put it.” “There now,” he re- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


229 


joined, “that was pretty neatly turned. I imagine you would make 
a good lawyer yourself. Let me put the case. I tell you I am dead 
in love with you and ask you to become my wife. You answer by 
saying, we are too young, incapable of contracting, but when we 
both arrive at majority you will answer. On arrival of that event 
should you not have answered ?” “The case is not fairly put/’ she 
rejoined. “Let me state it. You make a very polite and at the 
same time, pathetic proposal. I tell you to wait until both our 
judgments are better matured and we are capable of contracting, 
and if at that time your preference is the same, and you are still de¬ 
sirous to consummate that most devoutly to be wished contract, and 
will tell me so, I will answer. Now, will your Honor give judg¬ 
ment on this state of the pleadings?” “There is no use passing on 
it. The case is compromised and settled by the parties, and I have 
recovered my property,” Jack replied, as passing his arm through 
hers they sauntered along the path under the apple trees. “Yes, 
and I presume you can now congratulate yourself on having won 
your first suit,” she jocularly remarked, as she fastened a cluster 
of apple blosoms in the lapel of his coat. It is needless to relate in 
detail what further happened at this most pleasant meeting. They 
were on that evening both imbued with high ambitions of a future 
happy married life. Of a pleasant and tasty home where Minerva 
should preside at his one great joy, his chief pleasure. I am im¬ 
pressed there is nothing more inspiring, more fondly cherished, 
than the mind picture home of newly plighted lovers. It appears 
to them as the haven of all their hopes—the resting place of love. 
They talked of their future home, and it was determined after Jack 
had completed his course at law, and had established a practice, 
they would be wed. Alas ! how little of the future we grasp in these 
frail lives of ours! How sweet must the memory still be to Jack of 
that night when she told him she loved him, and the apple blos¬ 
soms fell upon their clasped hands. I have often wondered what 
would be the result, if the privilege were given to mortals, in the 
light of past experience, to live life over again. Would poor, frail 
nature be able to make amends for opportunities lost? 

“And pledging oft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder.” —Burns. 

They parted with the usual old-time wave of the handkerchief, 
and he was gone over the hill. 


230 


I Study Law. 


I Study Law. 

1 WAS likewise entering the study of law. I spent Sabbath even¬ 
ing with Minerva and Jack, and on Tuesday morning took the 
’bus for St. Clairsville, as two of my brothers had returned 
from the war and had taken charge of the farm. I had arranged to 
be at our home once or twice a month during my studies. The 
omnibus between Wheeling and Cambridge on the National road, 
was a great improvement on the old stage coach. It was more 
capacious, being long, with seats along the side, plenty of light, and 
with steps at the rear. With my trunk deposited on top, I took a 
seat with the driver in order to take in the refreshing beauty of a 
delightful May morning. Many flowers were in bloom and the 
locust blossoms filled the air with delicious perfume. The four 
spanking horses fairly skimmed over the grand old pike, which 
winds along the devious meanders of Wheeling Creek. At the old 
Stone Tavern we stopped to slake the thrist of man and beast. 
Across the road from the pump stood, and still stands, the most 
spreading elm tree I have ever beheld. It is the wonder and ad¬ 
miration of all travelers along this road. At the foot of the great 
hill we passed through what was pointed out to me by my grand¬ 
father many years before as the former camping ground of a tribe 
of Indians. He stated to me he, in company with Louis Wetzel, 
had watched from the adjacent hills the warlike sports of these 
Indians just before starting on their game hunts. After climbing 
the hill on the pike, the ride along the ridge is picturesque and beau¬ 
tiful. At the top of the hill is the old Woodmansee Tavern, a large 
and entertaining hostlery in its day. About two miles further west 
along this ridge road at the McMechen farm, close by the pike, is 
what is known as Indian Spring. It derives its name from the fight 
which took place between Louis Wetzel and a companion named 
Mills on the one side, and quite a number of Indians on the other, 
which they suddenly and unexpectedly encountered at this spring. 
They each shot their Indian and then started to run for Wheeling 
down this ridge, which then had no road and was covered with for¬ 
est. Wetzel’s companion was shot in the foot, overtaken, killed and 


Bonnie Belmont. 


231 


scalped. Wetzel reloaded his gun as he ran, killing two other In¬ 
dians in this way, when the others discontinued the chase. St 
Clairsville in 1863 still maintained much of its pioneer quaintness. 
Since the great fire there it has become much modernized. The 
line courthouse recently erected here at a cost approximating three 
hundred thousand dollars, is very imposing and surpassed by few 
in the country. The first court in the County was held November 
24th, 1S01, in a log building at Poultney Bottom, a mile or so south 
of Bellaire, and which topographically presents the finest location 
in the County for a large city. This court was held in pursuance of 
a proclamation of General Arthur St. Clair, then Governor of the 
Territory of the United States northwest of the Ohio River. In 
1804 the County Seat was removed to St. Clairsville, and that place 
named after the General. Among the early great lawyers of the St 
Clairsville bar were Judge William Kennon, Sr., Governor Wilson 
Shannon, Judge Benjamin R. Cowen, Judge Ruggles and William 
B. Hubbard. Among those of later date, when I began the study 
of law, may be mentioned Judge D. D. T. Cowen, Judge William 
Kennon, Jr., Peter Tallman, O. J. Sweeney, Ellis E. Kennon and 
Plon. Ross J. Alexander. Of course, there were other good lawyers 
there. I was fortunate in becoming a student in the office of Ken¬ 
non & Kennon, which was located on the east side of and adjoining 
what was then known as the National Hotel, now the Clarendon. 
This was a strong firm. Judge William Kennon, Sr., was then gen¬ 
erally recognized as one of the very ablest lawyers of the State. He 
had been a member of Congress in the days of Webster and Clay, 
and was one of the Board of Code Commissioners who framed our 
present Code of Practice in Ohio. He had been raised on a farm, 
was a man of large, strong build, though not portly, and of most 
imposing appearance. His head was among the largest I have 
ever seen, and as James Campbell, one of his students, once ex¬ 
pressed it, “plumb full of brains.” He was a dignified gentleman 
of the old school, always cool and collected, and his genial, kindly 
smile, coupled with his democratic social manners, caused him to be 
loved and respected by all classes. He was a good Latin and Greek 
scholar, had a superb memory, and could repeat from it all the com¬ 
mon law definitions laid down in Blackstone. He had been a 
Democrat up until the rebellion, when with many other patriotic 
members of that party he espoused the cause of the Union, remain- 


2 3 2 


I Study Law. 


ing until his death a member of the Republican party. He and 
Edwin M. Stanton, ex-Secretary of War, had been frequently asso¬ 
ciated together in the trial of great and difficult law and equity 
cases, and the latter regarding him as a great lawyer and able man, 
tried while Secretary of War, to prevail on him to come to Wash¬ 
ington and accept a high and responsible position under the govern¬ 
ment; but he stoutly refused. He was extremely sensitive and 
excessively modest and retiring. Secretary Stanton once told him if 
he would overcome these, the country would realize he was one of 
our greatest men. I once asked him his succinct opinion as to the 
difference between Daniel Webster and Henry Clay, with whom he 
was personally acquainted and had been politically associated. “Brief¬ 
ly stated,” he replied, “Henry Clay would lay down a proposition 
which as soon as stated, the listener would mentally respond, 4 Well, 
that is an old truth and principle recognized and acknowledged bj 
all, what of that?’ But before Clay got through, he would so am¬ 
plify and beautify it that the auditor would wonder why he had not 
seen it in that most interesting light. On the contrary, Webster 
would frequently assert a proposition as true, to which the mind of 
his hearer would not only dissent, but oppose. Nevertheless, be¬ 
fore he was through, he would so fortify his position with sound, 
logical, convincing reasoning as to render it impregnable, and caus¬ 
ing all to feel it must be true.” Judge Kennon looked upon John C. 
Calhoun as a man of just sufficient ability to be dangerous. He said 
it was the firm determination of President Jackson to have had 
Calhoun shot by drum-head courtmartial had he performed one 
overt act in carrying out his principle of nullification while a United 
States senator; that at one time it was noised about in Washington 
that Calhoun contemplated making a speech in the Senate resigning 
his seat therein, and then going home to his own State to participate 
in a movement withdrawing from the Union; that Jackson prepared 
to arrest him if he did, and to that end had every avenue of escape 
from Washington guarded; and that when Calhoun was quietly 
informed of Jackson’s intentions he actually turned pale, for he 
knew wffiat the old hero of New Orleans undertook to do, he would 
execute regardless of all precedents and consequences. Judge Ken¬ 
non may be well placed at the top of the list of great men which 
Belmont County has produced, His son, Ellis E. Kennon, was a 
born lawyer. He was clear, logical and forceful in his reasoning, a 
good speaker, and his pleadings now on file, are models of succinct- 



Judge William Ken non, Sr. 

Author of the Ohio Code of Civ-il Practice, and Member of 

Congress, St. Clairsville, O. 





















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I 














































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Bonnie Belmont. 


233 


ness and brevity of comprehensive statement. James B. Campbell 
had been a student in the Kennon office for a year before my arrival, 
lie was well read, a flowery speaker, and very companionable. 
Many questions of law were discussed and debated in the office, by 
common consent Judge Kennon and I taking one side, and E. E. 
Kennon and Campbell the other. It made little difference as to the 
importance of the question, it had to be discussed and the facts 
sifted. In this way we obtained a much more accurate and com¬ 
prehensive knowledge of many points of law than would have been 
required otherwise. I remember of the judge and I at one time 
scoring a signal victory in they not being able to explain the “writ 
of pone.” Much fun and amusement were had at times in St. 
Clairsville by the law and medical students in performing the act of 
“initiation,” as it was termed, on new students. A few of the com¬ 
panions of the newcomer, by a knowledge of and pre-arrangement 
with one of the nearby farmers, would take the new student after 
night to steal pears or other fruit. At the proper time the farmer 
would break in upon the whole crowd, directing the pursuit mainly 
after the new professional. In all the history of the many instances 
of this nature which were indulged in at the County Seat, the new 
student made such good time he was never overtaken. One poor 
fellow, who imagined he had been discovered in a great crime, was 
never heard of afterward. The “Mussadoag Society” was one which 
obtained great notoriety at St. Clairsville. This was nothing less 
than one of the most foolish and stupendous “guys.” It consisted 
of an initiation of the most elaborate “tomfoolery” of which one 
could imagine, and this was all there was of it. At the end of the 
initiation the candidate would be glad to say nothing of it, and be 
ready to join in and deceive and bore the next unfortunate. At one 
time they caught a “Tartar.” A new law student by the name of 
Monroe, from Captina, was being initiated, and when the transac¬ 
tion dawned upon him in its true light, he took it seriously and 
started in to clean out the whole society in detail. Being a power¬ 
fully built, resolute fellow, he had knocked down two or three and 
was proceeding with the remainder, when the lights went out and all 
but Monroe escaped down the stairway from the jury room in the 
upper story of the courthouse, the stair door having been locked by 
those retreating, leaving Monroe imprisoned in the upper story. He 
was compelled to put his head out the window and call the sheriff 
to release him. The other members kept shy of Monroe until his 


234 


I Study Law. 


indignation wore off. Sometimes, when court is in session, a day 
of idleness is occasioned by the trials of that day suddenly drop¬ 
ping out by compromise or otherwise. On such occasions the law¬ 
yers will frequently indulge in old-time reminiscences of the bar, 
and other incidents. One of the members who frequently indulged 
in this, especially when a good side-splitting joke was involved, was 
Hon. Ross J. Alexander. On one of these days, some twenty years 
after the war of the rebellion, a large portion of the attorneys were 
gathered around the St. Clairsville bar, among them ex-Judges Rob¬ 
ert E. Chambers and C. W. Carroll. After a story or two had been 
related and laughed at, Ross Alexander said: “I desire to relate a 
school reminiscence of Judge Carroll’s and mine. Long before the 
war, when we were young men attending college at New Athens, 
Ohio, a few of the young gentlemen of our classes and at our 
boarding house, determined to have an oyster supper, to which they 
each invited his best girl. It was to be a swell, and very select 
affair. As a consequence, a number of us were left out, among 
them Judge Carroll and myself. The young gentlemen sent to 
Wheeling by stage for a large can of oysters, which arrived on the 
night before that on which the party was given. The boys who 
were slighted determined they would have a secret stag party in 
my room, at which they would eat those oysters. The great diffi¬ 
culty in the way, was to obtain the oysters without the knowledge 
of the other gentlemen and our landlady, in whose charge they 
were given and who was to serve up the supper. The oysters had 
been deposited in the cellar, the keys of which were kept in the 
pocket of the landlady’s dress. Judge Carroll, always the man for 
a forlorn hope, was selected to bring the oysters from their lurking 
place. On the night of their arrival, and while the landlady and her 
husband slept soundly, he crept softly into their bedroom, took the 
keys from her pocket, brought the can and oysters to our room, 
where by means of a red-hot poker the solder w r as melted, the lid 
removed and oysters and a portion of the juice extracted. What 
was taken out was supplied with water. By means of a little borax 
and solder the lid was replaced, the oyster can returned to its place 
in the cellar and the keys again placed in the dress pocket in the 
landlady’s room. We had a fine supper of delicious oysters. On 
the next evening, when the guests had all arrived, imagine the 
chagrin and disappointment of that very select company, and their 
wholesale denunciation of the dishonest oyster dealer in Wheeling, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


235 


It was never known until this hour who got those oysters. Do you 
recollect anything of it, Judge Chambers? You know you were one 
of the select young gentlemen who were chiefly instrumental 
in getting up that party of ladies and gentlemen,” continued 
R.OSS Alexander, as he and the remainder of the attorneys fairly 
roared with laughter. Judge Chambers, who had been noticeably 
agitated toward the close of Alexander’s recital, sprang angrily to 
his feet, and with his walking cane raised menacingly, cried out in a 
great rage, “And you were the infernal thieves and scoundrels who 
stole those oysters, were you? You are the dirty dogs who caused 
us to get into trouble with the oyster vender over that matter and 
never came to our rescue, are you?” This explosion brought 
out renewed peals of laughter from the other attorneys, and Judge 
Chambers, seeing the ridiculous attitude he was in, immediately 
recovered his self-control, and the incident closed. It was a joke 
well executed, and a secret well and long kept. My associations at 
St. Clairsville while pursuing my professional studies, were quite 
pleasant. I remember with great pleasure the law student compan¬ 
ions there. Those still living are Corwin Dungan, now a leading 
lawyer in Missouri; Ira McMillan, in the same State, and William 
W. Alexander, one of the prominent and leading business men in 
Akron, Ohio. To this last named I am under lasting obligations 
for substantial aid in an hour of need, and for many acts of social 
kindness. May his last days be his brightest, spent with his splen¬ 
did wife, formerly Miss Lena Woodmansee. Alas, how many are 
dead! James B. Campbell, William Shannon, John Denham and 
Abner Miller have joined the silent majority. I might name a large 
number of others whose “feet by the wayside grew weary,” and 
who long ago laid them down to rest and sleep. How the 
soul sickens with a nameless yearning, when we reflect their mem¬ 
ory is all that is left us now. Under the fine tutelage of the Ken- 
nons I progressed quite rapidly with my studies, and through their 
kindness and that of Hon. Ross J. Alexander, Peter Tallman and O. 
J. Swaney, I was given quite a little to do among the justices’ 
courts of the county round about while I was still a student, which 
not only aided me in acquiring a knowledge of the practice, but 
served to replenish a depleted pocketbook. It shall always be one 
of my chief pleasures to remember the kindheartedness of these 
truly noble-hearted gentlemen to a young professional "pulling hard 
against the stream.” I cannot pass over these memories without 


236 


I Study Law. 


adverting* to the many kindnesses extended to me while a student, 
and since, by the family of Judge Kennon. His wife was a Miss 
Mary Ellis, a most estimable lady. She was one of five sisters, 
daughters of Ezer and Nancy Ellis, one of whom married Governor 
Shannon, another Hon. H. J. Jewett, another Hon. George Many- 
penny, and the other Hon. Isaac Eaton. None now survives of this 
noted family of refined and intelligent ladies. More than seven 
years ago, when calling on Mrs. William Kennon, some four 
days before her death, she called me to her bedside, drew my face 
down until her lips touched my cheek, and then said: “Now, John, 
you have always seemed like one of my boys. I am going to die. I 
want you to promise to meet me in heaven.” A few days after the 
spirit of this noble Christian woman, at the age of ninety-five, took 
its flight to join those of her faithful husband and loving children 
in that blissful state in which she so firmly believed. When she 
went I felt another of the links which have bound me to earth had 
been broken. The only surviving descendent is Mrs. M. C. Mitchell 
of Martins Ferry, daughter of Ellis E. Kennon. What a strange, 
short thing life is anyway! And eternity, oh, how long! Surely 
life, as has been well said by another, is but 

“A breath between a cradle and a bier, 

The blending of a smile, a sob, a tear.” 

Anterior to the war of 1861, with such noted members of the 
Steubenville bar as Edwin M. Stanton, Judge Tappan, Rodney 
Moody and others, and those already mentioned at the St. Clairsville 
bar, the counties of Jefferson and Belmont had few if any equals 
in the State, or country. The noted Wheeling bridge case, which 
had for its object the removal of the first suspension bridge at that 
city, as obstructing the navigation of the Ohio, was a war between 
the legal giants. Secretary Stanton represented the City of Pitts¬ 
burgh and the steamboat and rivermen, while Charles W. Russell 
appeared for the bridge company and the City of Wheeling. The 
contest became quite bitter between the litigants and the two cities. 
Stanton was ultimately victorious and obtained an order from the 
United States Supreme Court to remove the bridge. Before this 
could be executed, however, the State of Virginia, being then all- 
powerful in the halls of Federal legislation, had a law passed by 
Congress permitting the bridge to remain at its then present alti¬ 
tude, in consideration of its becoming a free postal route for the 


Bonnie Belmont. 


237 


United States mails. So ended one of the most memorable legal 
contests in the history of the country. The animosities engendered 
did not quickly die out, for on the 18th day of May, 1854, the day 
after this bridge blew down in a storm, one of the Pittsburgh steam¬ 
ers then navigating the Ohio, called the “Pennsylvania,” as it came 
up the river in sight of the bridge abutments, in a spirit of exulta¬ 
tion, lowered her chimneys as before had been the custom in order 
to pass under, and sounded her whistle in triumphant glee. On her 
down trip on the 20th, the citizens of Wheeling, still enraged at the 
insult she had offered some two days before, gathered upon the 
wharf and stoned the boat, damaging it considerably and not per¬ 
mitting it to land. The stone for the abutments of this Suspension 
Bridge and likewise for the construction of the bridge over the back 
river at Bridgeport, was taken from our grandfather’s farm at Bur¬ 
lington, some two miles above Wheeling, and floated down the 
river. The latter bridge was built in 1835 and 1836. 

Some of the most mirth producing incidents happened in the 
candidacy for nomination and election of many of our county offi¬ 
cers just after the war. In one of these Mr. B. F. Brady, later a 
prosperous merchant of Martins Ferry, who was a returned 
soldier, was seeking the nomination for sheriff of Jefferson County. 
He was desirous of securing the aid and influence of a Mr. Albaugh, 
who resided among the hills of Springfield Township in that 
county, and who, it was said, carried the vote of that township in 
his pocket. Mr. Brady did not know him, but started out to find 
him. From a high hill the farm of Albaugh was pointed out to him 
some two miles distant with several hollows intervening. When 
Brady arrived at what he supposed to be the place, he found a man 
engaged in planting corn with what was presumed to be a corn 
planter. It was a new invention by the party using it and was a 
most unique affair. In fact, it was hideous. It was made up partly 
of store box, odd and angular pieces of pine, hickory, oak, old nails 
and rusted sheet iron. When in use it made a noise like the com¬ 
bined harmony of a horse fiddle and a barn door with creaky 
wooden hinges. The farmer had a rapid horse hitched to his 
planter, and as he rattled it at a killing pace over the large unpulver¬ 
ized sods of a poorly harrowed field, the agitated handles of the 
planter caused the feet of its inventive genius to cut many grotesque 
gyrations in the air, as he watched with swelling admiration the hap¬ 
hazard working of this pride of his heart. He stopped occasionally 


238 


I Study Law. 


to rest and view with panting gratification the object which 
seemed to be the sum of all his hopes, unmindful of the fact that a 
portion of the time his machine was depositing the corn in piles, and 
then again not dropping any. Brady subsequently asserted, that 
whenever the corn planter struck a large clod and the horse was at 
his best gait, the coat-tail of the farmer cracked like a wagon whip. 
Tired from climbing a long hill, Mr. Brady, unobserved, seated him¬ 
self on the fence and watched the performance go on for some time. 
Finally he cried out, “Hello, there, neighbor, what have you got?” 
Then walking up and examining the planter, he said, “Now, by 
George! my friend, you have the finest idea there I ever saw. It is 
a splendid thing. Have you a patent on it? If you have, it will 
make you rich.” “Well, yes, I made it. I reckon it’s a pretty good 
contrivance, but I have no patent on it. After I get it to working a 
little better I expect to take out a patent,” said the farmer. “I won¬ 
der how you ever could muster sufficient ingenuity to make that 
machine,” said Brady, “but I do not wish to take up your valuable 
time, Mr. Albaugh, so I will at once come to the matter of my visit 
to you today. I am seeking the nomination for sheriff of Jefferson 
County on the Republican ticket, and learning you are the influential 
Republican of this precinct, I have come to urge my claims for the 
nomination and to ask if you will not carry your precinct for me at 
the coming convention?” After Mr. Brady had gone on at some 
length and presented his claims fully, the farmer, with a twinkle in 
his eye and a smile on his face, said: “Well, my friend, I sympa¬ 
thize with you greatly and hope you will get the nomination, but I 
can do you no good. You have made a mistake. I am not Mr. 
Albaugh. I am a Democrat. That is Mr. Albaugh over in the 
next field. He is the man you want and can do you some good.” 
Brady, ever fond of a joke and quick to make the best of it, gravely 
said: “Now, my friend, I see I have made a mistake, the joke is 
on me and the treat, too, when I meet you in the city, but before I 
go let me say, as you are a Democrat, I can afford to be honest 
with you, and if you do not throw away that infernally hideous 
thing which you call a corn planter, it will break you up. It is not 
worth a baubee and never will be.” As Brady walked off the farmer 
leaned against the planter and laughed heartily. Brady turned as 
he arrived at the top of the hill to wave him a good-bye, and the 
farmer cried out, “Say, if you get that nomination I’ll vote for you 
sure.” 


Bonnie Belmont. 


239 


Bolivar. 

% 

I PRESUME you have not forgotten our “war dog” Bolivar, and 
what a bereavement his death caused in our family, and espe¬ 
cially the younger children? I think there could not have 
been more genuine sorrow and weeping among the latter at the loss 
of one of the family, so completely had he become a part of it. He 
was the finest specimen of shepherd I have ever seen, and I have 
never known his equal for quick perception, good judgment and dis¬ 
criminating executive ability. I have often thought he should have 
been provided with the power of speech, for he had such surprisingly 
good sense. He apparently took as deep interest in whatever was 
being done on the farm as any of us, and was always ready when 
needed. He had no social side for other dogs, always preferring the 
company of human beings, and appeared greatly lost when this was 
denied him. I have seen our mother step up to him and say, “Now, 
Bolivar, I am ready for the cows, I want them brought.” Without 
one other spoken syllable from her, he would immediately start for 
the fields of our large farm, and it would make no difference whether 
the herd was in sight or out of it, he would ultimately return with¬ 
out the absence of a single cow. The same result would follow 
were he directed to bring the horses. Not a horse would be miss¬ 
ing. The sheep were his especial charge and in this particular he 
performed his duty well. Any strange dog which invaded the 
sacred domain of that farm, received a sound trouncing from Bolivar 
He was captured by our brother Wilson at Bolivar Heights, Vir¬ 
ginia, when his division was on the march past that place early in 
the war and was hence named after that place. Wilson had stepped 
from his ranks to ask for a drink of water at a fine looking dwelling 
near the road. He was curtly informed by the owner they had no 
water. While looking at his respondent incredulously, a mother 
shepherd dog with a number of fine half-grown puppies, came trot¬ 
ting around the house. Wilson was always a great fellow' for a dog 
and claimed to be a good judge of them. He blandly remarked to 
the owner, “Well, sir, if I can not get any water I will need some 


240 


Bolivar. 


meat for supper, and so good-day!” As he said this he caught up 
one of the puppies, and walking off, took his place in the ranks 
with the dog under his arm, amid the laughter of his comrades and 
to the wonderment of the owner, who from that time on was no 
doubt fully impressed that the “Yankees” really ate dogs. Bolivar 
grew to be a favorite and pet of the regiment and was known by the 
whole division. They would have fought for him at any time. He 
went through the war, was in a number of battles, and was silghtly 
wounded more than once. He apparently took as much interest in 
soldiering as his companions, always being found with his regiment. 
On the evening of its muster out at Columbus, Ohio, and just before 
disbanding and starting for home, Wilson missed his dog. He 
knew it was a case of enforced absence with Boiivar and that it was 
a proposed case of clear steal by someone. He looked through the 
tents of his own regiment and found the dog was not there. He 
gave the alarm, and immediately the whole regiment was aroused 
and ready for fight. There were a number of other regiments 
camped nearby from other sections of the army awaiting their turn 
to be mustered out. Our brother’s regiment made a rush for these 
regiments to recapture their dog. Our brother walked through 
these calling Bolivar. The latter ultimately responded by a whine 
from one of the tents. On going to that tent Wilson found a soldier 
inside on his knees astride the dog with his back toward the door of 
the tent, and hands clasped tightly around the mouth of the dog to 
prevent him from giving token of his captivity. Our brother took 
in the situation at a glance. He was a very active, powerful man, 
and full of anger at the stealing. He threw all his force and energy 
into the action and with a run and jump, planted a lick with his 
brawny fist with all his force on the back of the thief’s head, landing 
him sprawling on the other side of the tent. Not satisfied with this, 
he kicked him in the face in a most merciless manner, and then with 
the dog rejoined his comrades outside. The affair came very nearly 
ending in a pitched battle, as our brother's regiment started to give 
the other regiment a chastising, but a line of bayonets soon sepa¬ 
rated the combatants. Just as the regiment was disbanding, going 
to their respective homes, possibly never all to meet again, they 
gave Bolivar three rousing cheers as our brother started with him to 
the train. Many of them had previously manifested their attach¬ 
ment by embracing him affectionately. Poor Bolivar finally lost his 


Bonnie Belmont. 


241 


life at a ripe old age, by swallowing some meat loaded with strych¬ 
nine, placed to destroy rat* . 

The most pleasant hours spent together by Minerva and Jack, 
were on the occasions of his short visits home during the three years 
of his law studies. These were sometimes once, though oftener 
twice a month. When Jack looked back afterward and reflected on 
the most perfect confidence they had in each other, the cordial, con¬ 
fiding affection between them, the joyful gladness with which they 
always met on his visits home; and then again remembered the 
tender, sad expressions of the eyes and the fond, warm pressures of 
the hands when parting to be separated for only a month or less, he 
wondered how it could be that so short a period could possibly bring 
such sad, adverse changed conditions as soon followed. Alas! how 
little we know of what is in store for us! In all their long associa¬ 
tions together from childhood there had never been an unkind word 
or thought between them. Their lives and love had run on like a 
summer of sunshine among the roses. No storm had ever broken 
over the ever May day of their plighted faith. Seemingly it was 
something they had never thought of. They only thought of each 
other, and with complete and absolute confidence and affection. The 
many romantic spots near their homes by the beautiful Ohio lent a 
charm to their wooing. Oh, 

“The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimmed and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken.” 

—T. Moore. 

% 

1 

At the home of her sister, who was a most delightful 
lady, Minerva and Jack at all times found congenial cordiality. This 
was so in an intellectual as well as a social sense. In fact, it may 
be truthfully said the neighborhood of Colerain, ever since its early 
settlement by the Friends, had been classed as a people of refined 
thought and education. Jack’s visits with Minerva to her sister’s 
home in this community, were most pleasant and enjoyable. A 



242 


Bolivar. 


Saturday afternoon stroll from St. Clairsville to this place, and the 
evening and following Sabbath spent with Minerva, was always a 
recreation and pleasure looked forward to with glad anticipation 
and a great relief from the dry, monotonous studies of the law. No 
one but he who has had the experience, can imagine what satisfac¬ 
tion it is to a boy who has been raised on a farm and who has be¬ 
come a student, to have a day’s relief in a stroll over the country. 
His heart fairly leaps with joy as his soul takes in the surrounding 
beauties of nature, and like the sturdy highland chief, he feels he is 
again upon his “native heath.” What a tender, longing feeling 
every farm boy has for the farm. Few indeed, of those who have 
been raised on one and subsequently adopted business, professional 
or other callings, do not cherish the dream of one day again own¬ 
ing and living on a farm. There is a tinge of that same broad free¬ 
dom about it which binds the heart of the Scotchman to the wild 
crags of his native highlands. Alas, how many who dream these 
dreams are doomed to disappointment and die with the panorama 
of the dear “old farm and family circle” as the last life picture in 
their fading vision! 


Bonnie Belmont. 


243 


Death of Aunt Tilda. 

S OME two years of my law studies had passed, when I one day 
received a letter from Minerva telling me of the serious ill¬ 
ness of Aunt Tilda, whom she had visited a few days before. 
The next day I received a letter conveying the request 
from Aunt Tilda for me to come home, as she felt she 
could live but a few days and desired to see me before the final 
summons came. Aunt Tilda had become a great favorite in the 
family and indeed, in the whole neighborhood. From the day I, as 
a mere child, had sidled up to her and taken hold of her hand, telling 
her not to cry, at the Wheeling auction block, her affection for me 
had apparently become more deep-seated. She loved to talk of 
Mose, a pleasure in which Minerva and I, and in fact all of us, 
always indulged her, and she never for one moment would brook 
the idea she would not again see him before she died. We had fre¬ 
quently told her Mose would come and hunt her up when the war 
was over, but two years had already gone by, and I fancied in some 
of our more recent talks her words gave evidence of despair and 
deep lines of sadness were plainly discernible on her otherwise 
cheerful, bright face. When I saw her on my arrival home, I was 
astonished at the mighty change which but a short month had 
wrought. Before I went to her bedside they informed me the 
doctor represented she had but a very few days to live. When I 
clasped her hand and looked into her kind old face, I knew she was 
dying of a broken heart. “You’ve corn’d at last, my deah, deah 
boy,” she said, “but oh, I was so fear’d you’d not come. You knows 
you is next to my own child’n, honey, you and Miss Mervie and de 
rest of dem heah, dey am all my children. I am gwine to die now in 
a few days, honey. God was good in bringin’ me to yous all hea’. I 
hoped God would spa’ me to lib some yea’s with my son Mose yit, 
but God hab called me an’ I must go now. But bress His holy 
name, I will see Mose yit in de flesh. God hab told me so honey, 
and He su’ly keeps His word. I’ll see Mose—my dea boy Mose— 
befo’ I die. God hab told me so in a vision. I seed him cornin’ 


244 


Death of Aunt Tilda. 


right in dat doah, sure. Now honey, don’ cry, der is no use cryin’ 
’bout dis poor ol’ niggah, fo’ she’s not been much ’count anyway, but 
maybe God find some use fo’ her up dar. I’s gwine up dar to see 
poor Mose’s deah fadder who’s gone long while ago, an’ a waitin’ 
fo’ me up dar. Now, honey, you is tia’d an’ hungry cornin’ way 
down heah, you go an’ git somethin’ to eat, an’ some rest, an’ den I 
talk to you in de mornin’. I wants you to bring Miss Mervie in de 
mornin’ or next day, fo’ Aunt Tilda wants to see and talk to youse 
bof togedda befo’ she die. Now ‘Cinda,’ you get me some ob dat 
medicine what makes me sleep an’ rest an’ den you hep ’tend to 
Massa John to git somethin’ to eat.” Lucinda, who had been in¬ 
formed of her mother’s sickness and had come to her, assisted me in 
giving her the medicine requested, and we soother her into a gentle 
sleep. The medicine was only given to bring all possible comfort 
for her remaining few days, as death was inevitable. She passed a 
measurably comfortable night. Once or twice in her fitful dream¬ 
ing under the influence of the soothing opiates, she softly whispered 
the name of Mose. When I saw her in the morning she was some¬ 
what refreshed, though it was plainly perceptible her strength was 
rapidly declining. On the third day after my arrival Minerva came, 
and as we approached her bedside with my arm drawn through 
Minerva’s, Aunt Tilda took a hand of each, and clasping them to¬ 
gether between her own, said : “Bless you, my dea’ good chil’en, I’s 
so glad to see you’s bof togedda again. You knows I lobe you bof 
very deah’ly.” We had her braced up in her favorite sitting posi¬ 
tion with her face toward the door leading from the hall. She 
talked long and animatedly, her favorite topic being of her earlier 
youth, and the short, happy years of her earlier married life on the 
shores of the beautiful Potomac, “in ole Virginia, befo’ dey took my 
deah good husband away to die in de Carlina’s,” as she termed it. 
“I seed his spirit in hebben las’ night,” she said, “an’ he was a beck¬ 
onin’ fo’ me to come, an’ oh, his face shine so bright I thought it 
were an angel when I fust seed him. Den de angels, dey wash me 
white, an’ den dey take me up on dair wings an’ dey carry me ’cross 
de ribba an’ I be wid by bressed Lo’d an’ my deah, deah husband. 
An’ now, if I could only see my boy Mose once mo’ dis poo’ ol’ 
soul ’d be ready to go. Good many white folks think a poor col’d 
person hab no heart-strings to break, honies, an’ dat dey do not hab 
love fo’ dair chil’n like white people, but de good Lo’d knows bettah 


Bonnie Belmont. 


245 


an’ He’ll make it all plain when he washes dair souls white an’ 
shinin’ in de blood ob de Lamb. Now, honies, you’s be ti’ad, jis’ 
take seats an’ rest while Aunt Tilda sing’s an’ prays a bit.” We 
took seats a little way from the bed with our faces toward her and 
our backs to the door, while Lucinda remained standing on the other 
side of the bed. Aunt Tilda, in a feeble voice, sang two verses of 
her favorite hymn, 

“The old ship of Zion, will anchor by and by,” 

and then closing her eyes remained long in silent prayer, her lips 
moving perceptibly. The stillness was most impressive, and I 
would have given much to have known the sweet words of com¬ 
munion then taken place between the soul of that faithful, persecuted 
Christian and her God. Before her eyes opened she repeated slowly 
and quite audibly, “Yes, Mose is comin! Mose is comin !” I thought 
her mind wandering possibly in partial delirium, but in a moment 
she opened them wide, stretched her hands towards the door, and as 
though gathering all her weakened energies for the occasion, ex¬ 
claimed in a full round voice, such as she had not been able to use 
for weeks, ‘Dar is my Mose! He am come at last! Bless de Lo’d, 
bless de Lo’d !” She fell forward in the arms of her son. Mose had 
indeed come. She at last beheld him in the flesh, as she had so 
faithfully declared she would. The scene was most startling and 
never to be forgotten. With her arms around the neck of her long 
lost son, her head and face pillowed against his cheek, and his strong 
arms clasping her body, the giant form of Mose shook with emotion 
as the strong timbers of a vessel in a mighty storm. Not desiring 
to disturb the joy of that sacred, last meeting between a dying 
mother and her son, we let them remain clasped in each other’s 
arms until the stillness became painful. With the assistance of 
Mose we tenderly laid her back upon the bed, and bending over 
her in the most sincere affection, he said, “Now, mother, rest awhile 
and then we will talk together.” Poor Mose! That talk was never 
realized. The soul of Aunt Tilda had taken its flight as she lay 
upon the shoulder of her long expected and only son. When Mose 
found she was indeed dead, his grief knew no bounds. He bent 
over her body, pressed her lips long and fervently with his own, 
breaking into a flood of tears, something he had never done before, 


246 


Death of Aunt Tilda. 


while his anguish seemed to rend his very soul. He arose sad and 
heartbroken, remarking as he kissed the lips of his sister, “You are 
all that is left me now!"’ At the burial of Aunt Tilda many a 
friend stood around her grave. 

After raising two crops for Mr. Copeland, and getting him well 
started under the new contract system, Mose reluctantly bade them 
all good-bye, to seek out his mother and sister in Ohio. He came 
to Martins Ferry and was directed to our home, where, before enter¬ 
ing the room, he was made aware of her critical condition. In com¬ 
pliance with Aunt Tilda’s oft-repeated request before she died and 
which was communicated to him by us, he never returned to the 
slave States. 

We buried Aunt Tilda on Saturday, and the Sabbath following 
was one of the most sacred and tender Jack ever spent with Min¬ 
erva. They visited Aunt Tilda’s fresh-made grave together, and 
seated near it, talked of her many kindnesses and deep devotion to 
us. On Monday morning I returned to my studies. Before Jack 
and Minerva separated she informed him their family expected to 
move to Bridgeport shortly, there to reside, which they 
subsequently did. It sent a pang of sadness to Jack, for he 
imagined the many places made sacred to him by their strolls and 
visits together, would likely be abandoned forever. Alas, it proved 
as he had anticipated, and they live now only in memory, though 
they become more sacred as the years go on. Jack continued his 
studies for a year after the doctor’s family moved to Bridgeport, 
his visits to Minerva and correspondence continuing as before. I 
think city life suited her better. Here she had ample opportunity 
to gratify her literary and social inclinations, the former being her 
chief delight. She was a splendid, charming conversationalist, and 
no matter in what circle thrown, never failed to make an impres¬ 
sion. Her tall, commanding figure, and impressive, cultivated 
countenance, with her stately, easy, graceful movement added 
greatly to her force of character. Few talked with her that were 
not pleased or fascinated. Jack never felt more elated and gratified 
than on an occasion of a most fashionable entertainment in Wheel¬ 
ing to which she and he were invited, when she made her personal 
attention to him most dignifiedly marked. I am impressed Jack 
at that time was but a social clown in the eyes of many young so¬ 
ciety gentlemen of wealth attending that party. Jack thought it so 


Bonnie Belmont. 


247 


gracious of her to assume a manner of deferential respect toward 
him not accorded to the other more polished young gentlemen. He 
wondered afterward how it could all be, and, how deeply did he 
deplore the fact that he could not properly appreciate so rich a 
jewel which had fallen to his lot. In her city life, Minerva came in 
social rivalry with many brilliant ladies. Jack noticed she had be¬ 
come more vivacious and spirited. In his deep-seated love for her 
and his social inexperience, he construed her sauvity of conversa¬ 
tion, and polite polished manner toward other young gentlemen as 
downright deception and flirtation, and he intimated as much to her. 
It seemed to hurt her feelings deeply, though suggested in the most 
polite manner. He was sorry for it as soon as done, and when 
she resented it, begged her pardon. He fancied the same old feel¬ 
ing of confidence never again existed between them from that hour. 
She felt he had not only lost confidence in her, but had impugned 
her motives, and it lacerated her heart. He could not have touched 
her sensibilities in a more tender spot. He should have known better, 
for she was at all times the very embodiment of truth, and duplicity 
had no place in her soul. In his jealousy and clownish social ignor¬ 
ance, he had construed polished politeness into an effort to fascinate 
other gentlemen. It was the first divergence of two hearts which 
had beaten together since childhood. But this was a mere riffle 
and was healed over at once by his apology, though it ever after left 
its mark on both their hearts, notably on Minerva’s. Her belief of 
his confidence in her truthfulness had been shaken. This convic¬ 
tion of hers was subsequently strengthened by the following 
occurrence: A certain young man of wealth and high family 
standing, then a most popular society gentleman in the community, 
became deeply infatuated with Minerva. On account of his wealth 
and social station there was not a mother in the community having 
a marriageable daughter who would not have been glad to have 
called him son-in-law. His reputation as the world goes and as 
society knows it, was good. Yet Jack knew (as all young men so 
well know each other) that from the habits of this gentleman and 
the company he occasionally kept, he was a graceless social scamp. 
He lost no opportunity in paying his addresses to Minerva, to the 
envy of many other young ladies. Jack did not like him. In fact 
he had always been particularly sensitive on certain principles of 
social ethics. But Jack knew he was a man with an impure heart 


248 


Death of Aunt Tilda. 


socially, and not a fit escort in his absence for such a pure woman 
as Minerva. He cautiously intimated his convictions as to his 
moral status. She urged his standing and reputation, and de¬ 
manded proof. Jack resented the fact she would not take his word 
for it. He urged that his interest in her was such as to give him a 
right to speak when otherwise he should be silent. She acknowl¬ 
edged this, and said if he would only give her meager evidence, her 
conduct toward this young man would change. Jack did not think 
she had any love for him, but in his unreasonable, hasty temper, he 
told her if this individual kept company with her at any time, he 
could not. They separated with this point of difference between 
them, Jack returning to St. Clairsville, and they conducted their 
further disputed negotiations by letter. After the lapse of years 
Jack can realize his hasty unreasonableness then. In fact he real¬ 
ized it soon after. He should not have put Minerva to such severe 
and arbitrary test. He could have given her evidence, but his 
false pride forbade it. Minerva deserved this evidence. She 
was a cool, deliberate woman, never judging anyone hastily or 
partially. She could not be swerved from her firm purpose of at all 
times doing exact justice to all. She would not have done this gen¬ 
tleman an injustice for even Jack’s sake, no matter how deeply she 
may have loved him. Jack’s resentful, imperious manner shocked 
and startled her. Such harshness coming from him she could not 
realize. To add to his unreasonable frenzy, he subsequently mis¬ 
construed her motives and acted upon the assumption which had 
taken possession of his reason, namely, that she really loved this 
young man notwithstanding his revealed immorality, and was un¬ 
true to him. He persisted in this even against her protests. How 
strange he should do so when he knew she had never and could 
never possibly act with duplicity toward anyone, or in any matter. 
Their letter disputations dragged on for months. Jack learned of 
his being her escort occasionally, and this he construed as an insult 
to him under the circumstances. The truth is, she at this very 
time was treating him with great coolness, and subsequently requested 
him to discontinue his attentions. Jack was not aware of this, how¬ 
ever, until long afterwards and it was too late. His pride had 
been touched, and in an evil hour he wrote Minerva demanding a 
return of his letters, and on receipt of them, returned hers. Jack’s 
tuition had closed and in his desperation he determined to go west 



The Author. 












































































■ 










' 


























































\ 








Bonnie Belmont. 


249 


and begin the practice of his profession. He did not have the sta¬ 
bility he should have had. Apparently he was still in the transi¬ 
tion state between boyhood and dignified, sober manhood. One 
thing is certain, he was not manly in his love affairs and treat¬ 
ment of her who was then really dearer to him than life. He did 
not then know what he was doing against his own future happi¬ 
ness. He afterward imagined he was actuated by a spirit of brag¬ 
gadocio. In his mad, jealous love he seemed to have lost his most 
ordinary reason and judgment. Had he gone to Minerva in the 
right spirit and manner even at the last hour, all would have been 
well. On the contrary, his last letter before leaving for the West 
was most unkind and upbraiding. All her replies were dignified 
and kindly, though wonderfully firm. How often has Jack cursed 
the spell of evil influence which apparently he could not shake off, 
in dealing with that most important and sacred matter to him of all 
others in life. If he had only gone to Minerva in person, the magic 
of her presence and softening influence would have settled it all. 
But his superabounding pride intervened and he acted not only the 
part of a fool, but wounded the heart of as noble creature as God 
ever formed. But if his action was cruel, so likewise has been his 
punishment. Forty-one years have not yet measured its duration. 
The papers published the date of Jack’s contemplated departure for 
the west. His sisters and brothers accompanied him to the Cleve¬ 
land and Pittsburgh depot in Bridgeport, thence to take passage to 
Bellaire and the west. It seemed strange to Jack that for the first 
time Minerva was not present to say “good-bye.” It was nine 
o’clock in the morning, and standing on the rear platform of the last 
car, he waited to obtain a last glimpse of Minerva. She resided 
in Kirkwood, near the end of the creek wagon bridge, the house 
fronting the railroad which passed it some three hundred feet dis¬ 
tant. No houses then intervened to obstruct the view from the car 
as he passed with a heavy heart that beautiful June morning. Min¬ 
erva was at the upper raised window, anxiously watching the train. 
Tack waived to her with his handkerchief as the train moved by, 
and she immediately responded with hers. They kept it up until 
he had passed out of sight down toward West Wheeling. Jack’s 
heart was still rebellious, and with a kind of half gratified triumph, 
he took his seat in the car and began to address his thoughts to his 
future prospects in the far west. 


250 


Death of Aunt Tilda. 


I settled in Sedalia, Missouri, began the practice of law. 
Among friends I made there were Messrs. George W. Cum¬ 
mings, Professor George W. Ready, Thomas Cummings. 
Abram Myer, Harry Smith, J. G. White, Gould Sturgis, 
Hon. J. T. Herd, Judge John F. Philips, Hon. A. J. Sampson, Cap¬ 
tain L. L. Bridges and Colonel Mack J. Learning, and their good 
wives. Of course, there were many others. General A. J. Samp¬ 
son, since Minister and Envoy to Equador, was my first law part¬ 
ner. My practice soon became lucrative and I accumulated consid¬ 
erable property, for so young a man. The novelty in the new field of 
action and by increasing practice, kept my mind employed and in¬ 
deed, quite pre-occupied. I was soon made Prosecuting Attorney 
for the County, which added to my multiplied duties. Jack was 
likewise prosperous, but notwithstanding these, he had an aching 
void in his heart and a “nameless longing” to see Minerva. Not a 
line had passed between them. His egotism knew no bounds. He 
felt she sooner or later would recede from her position and ask his 
pardon. And yet, he knew she was right and that his subsequent 
conduct toward her was most unpardonable. The truth is, he had 
the “big head” and had played the supercilious fool. When the first 
romance of this new professional life had partially worn off, he 
began to have time to reflect. In the silence of his office medita¬ 
tions and alone, he went over his first and only difference with 
Minerva in a calmer, more reflective judgment and softened frame 
of mind. He tried to give it that impartial, unprejudiced considera¬ 
tion which a judge would in determining a case. When he had 
done so, he knew he had not only been wrong and arbitrary in the 
first instance, but as a result, had not only been hasty, but cruel. 
He determined to write her, acknowledging his fault, humbly ask¬ 
ing her forgiveness, and renewing his vows of love. He knew 
she would forgive him, but oh, he had no conception, or expectation 
of what a surprise was in store for him on the latter. Ah, me! he 
had been playing with fire. He had exposed his manly failings. 
His opportunity had passed. His day of reckoning had come. He 
had been in the practice more than a year when he carried his reso¬ 
lution into action. In due course of mail he received from Minerva 
a cold, formal, though most magnanimous reply. She freely for¬ 
gave him for all that had passed, even going so far as to say the 
blame did not rest on him alone, but that she in justice should share 


Bonnie Belmont. 


251 


it with him, which she freely and gladly did. Nay, she said she was 
willing for his sake to assume it all; but that the incident itself, 
with the fact that they could separate as they did, and a whole 
year intervene without a word passing between them, had, after 
mature reflection and self-examination on her part, convinced her 
that there was not, and never had been, between them that deep- 
seated love which should exist between those contemplating matri¬ 
mony, and hence she concluded it best for them not to renew their 
vows. 

The contents of her letter came to Jack like a thunderbolt. 
It was most crushing on his spirits, and a deep humiliation to his 
egotistic pride. He cared not for the latter, however, for he felt he 
deserved it and that it would do him good. But oh, could it be 
possible he was at last to lose Minerva? He saw plainly now, this 
was what he would have to fight for and he prepared himself for 
the struggle, and addressed his persuasive abilities to retrieve his 
forfeited standing with her. He saw she was a woman of even 
broader intellect than he had anticipated, and one who would not 
sacrifice reason and judgment to even deep-rooted affection. He 
thought her wrong in assuming there would be any further variance 
between them, and by letter after letter, tried with all of his elo¬ 
quence of soul and pen, to again ingratiate himself into her affec¬ 
tions. Nay, this is not putting it properly; he was already ingra¬ 
tiated, but his duty and effort was, to prove to her his affection was 
all sufficient to forever exclude possibility of future estrangement 


252 


A Romance of Fort Pillow. 


A Romance of Fort Pillow. 

O NE evening, just as I had completed a letter to my former 
home and had thrown it sealed on my law office 
desk, my friend, Colonel Mack J. Learning, formerly of 
La Porte, Indiana, a noble fellow who was dangerously wounded in 
the spine at the massacre of Fort Pillow and left for dead by the 
Confederates, entered my office. He is a brother-in-law to the 
celebrated poet, Benjamin F. Taylor, of Chicago, who has written 
some of the finest poems in English literature, whom I am glad to 
call my friend, and from whose splendid productions I have quoted 
in this work. “Doing some writing?” said the Colonel as he en¬ 
tered. “Yes, I replied, writing to an old ‘sweetheart.’ Since we 
are on that topic, Colonel, will you not relate to me the romance 
of yourself and your wife in which you were so miraculously saved 
at the Fort Pillow massacre? I see you were one of the witnesses 
before the commission investigating the violation of the rules of 
civilized warfare on the part of the Confederates in that battle, with 
a view to punishing the principal offenders?” In measured accents, 
his story was as follows: “I was Colonel of a regiment in that 
fight and they overpowered us with great numbers. We fought them 
until we were about out of ammunition and there was no longer 
any hope, then stopped firing, running up the white flag of surrender. 
They rushed in on us and instead of showing quarter, as we had 
thrown down our guns, began killing indiscriminately and without 
regarding our appeals. I could have killed two or three myself, but 
for the fact I was relying on the code of surrender, and I know 
there were many of us who could have done the same. A villainous 
scoundrel shot me with my hands raised in token of surrender. He 
was one of General Forrest’s cavalry. The ball went through me, 
lodging against my spine, and I dropped to the ground senseless. 
I had on my person about one hundred dollars in money, a fine 
gold watch, and an engagement ring placed upon my finger by my 
affianced when I started from La Porte; also her daguerreotype. 
How long I lay insensible I cannot say, but when I opened my eyes 


Bonnie Belmont. 


253 


I found a Confederate soldier bending over me and rifling 
my pockets. 1 was lying on my back and when I spoke 
to him he was greatly astonished and disconcerted. I found 
I was utterly unable to move. I asked him if there was any 
member of the Masonic order in his command. He replied that his 
Captain was a Mason. I asked him if he would bring him to 
me. I presume more out of curiosity to see what he would do 
than otherwise, he brought him. I gave him the Masonic sign, told 
him I was from La Porte, Indiana, and wanted him to do me a favor 
as I expected to die. He had his regimental physician called, who 
examined me and told me I had but an hour or so to live, and after 
helping me all he could they carried me into one of the log barrack 
buildings, laying me on my back with head to the wall. I told the 
Captain of my engagement to the young lady in La Porte, gave 
her address, and gave him the ring, picture and watch, and asked 
him to send them to her with the tidings of my death. He prom¬ 
ised me faithfully to do so and took the money from the soldier to 
send it also. Just then I heard the firing of heavy guns outside, and 
hurried commands -to ‘fall in,’ given by the Confederate offi¬ 
cers. The heavy firing was from the Federal gunboats coming to 
our relief. I heard the orders given by the Confederate to fire the 
buildings, and soon could hear the crackling of the flames and 
could smell the smoke. The building in which I was lying was 
burning and the fire from the roof was falling all around me. 
A burning ember lodged in a haversack hanging just over my head, 
I saw the string burning off and soon the whole fell ablaze on the 
side of my face, dropping on the floor. I attempted to move my 
head and the effort threw me into unconsciousness. Just as I was 
passing into this condition, I had a sense of great pain, as though 
one were dragging me by the shoulders. It was the Confederate 
Captain, as I afterward learned, pulling me from the burning build¬ 
ing out to the open field and away from the fire. I have ’ never 
heard from him since. Poor fellow, he must have been subse¬ 
quently killed.” “Do you really think he would have kept faith 
with you?” I inquired when the Colonel finished. “I have not the 
slightest doubt of it in the world,” he replied, “something must 
have happened. When I came to consciousness again, resumed 
the Colonel, I was in the hospital, being treated by a Federal surg¬ 
eon. I recovered after a lingering time of it, in a measure, and my 


254 


A Romance of Fort Pillow. 


present wife, whom you know, is the sweetheart that I left in La 
Porte. But you have no idea how I would love to know what the 
fate of the Captain was, for my wife never heard from him.” So 
ended the Colonel’s story then. Not one month after the above 
conversation, he walked into my office, his face all aglow, and said, 
“Do you remember my story of a few weeks ago of the Fort Pillow 
episode?” “Most assuredly,” I replied, “it has made a deep impres¬ 
sion on me.” “I have found my Captain!” he rejoined, with great 
enthusiasm. He carried in his hand two letters, one from a friend 
in La Porte, calling the attention of the Colonel to another en¬ 
closed. The latter was to the postmaster at La Porte making in¬ 
quiry as to whether any person from that city had been a Federal 
Colonel and commanded a regiment at Fort Pillow. It stated the 
writer had forgotten the name of the Colonel and also the city in 
which he resided in the State of Indiana, but that the Colonel, just 
before he died, had left a watch, some money, a gold ring and a pic¬ 
ture of a lady to whom deceased was engaged, whose name he had 
also forgotten. That he had promised the Colonel to deliver these 
to the lady, but so far had not been successful in finding trace of 
her or the friends of the Colonel. It requested the postmaster, if 
he could find trace of them, to have them write him in Texas, the 
particular point I have now forgotten. The postmaster knowing 
the incident, sent the letters to the Colonel, then residing in Sedalia, 
Missouri. The Colonel sat down in my office and wrote the Con¬ 
federate Captain at once. In a few days he received a reply, asking 
the Colonel to meet him in Kansas City on a certain day, as he 
was the owner of a large cattle ranch in Texas, and would be in 
that city on that day with a large consignment of cattle for the east¬ 
ern market. The Colonel, with his wife, met him there and they 
enjoyed a week or more of most pleasant social reunion. It turned 
out the Captain was a bachelor and was very wealthy. He offered 
the Colonel a half interest in all he had free if he would cast his lot 
with him on the ranch. I am not aware whether the Colonel ever 
accepted it, as I separated from him soon after and have never met 
him since. To the Captain, it was like one rising from the dead to 
know the Colonel had survived his terrible wound. The latter was 
still carrying the ball when I last saw him. Truly, how stranger 
than fiction are the romances of war. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


255 


The James and Youngers. 

S EATED in front of my office in Sedalia one evening, I ob¬ 
served a body of twenty horsemen ride up and stop to take 

supper at the hotel close by. They were all well armed with 

Winchester repeating rifles and appeared tired. The first hold-up 
and robbery in history of a railroad train, had happened but 

a few days before in the State of Iowa. This body of men, com¬ 

manded by an ex-Colonel and Captain of the recent war, had fol¬ 
lowed the trail of the robbers from Iowa. The robbers were the 
celebrated James and Younger brothers. The James boys, as they 
were familiarly called, consisted of two brothers, Frank and Jesse. 
Their father was dead and their mother married for a second hus¬ 
band a minister by the name of Samuels. She was a high tempered 
woman, ready to resent any imagined injury. She resided in Ray 
County, a short distance north of the Missouri River, about forty 
miles northwest of Sedalia. Mr. Samuels, finding his home uncon¬ 
genial, left and was never heard of afterward. The Youngers were 
sons of Judge Younger, who formerly resided near Sedalia, their 
names being Cole, John, James and Bob. Judge Younger and his 
wife being dead, they lived on their farm, which they kept in the 
name of Mrs. Snuffer, near Monigaw Springs, a watering place some 
forty miles south of Sedalia. This body of armed men had traced 
these robbers to Sedalia and were following them on to the home of 
the Youngers. When near Monigaw Springs they halted and went 
into camp. The Colonel and Captain rode into the little town. As 
they were returning and while passing through a narrow point in 
the road, skirted on each side by thick underbrush, and when within 
a few hundred yards of their command, they were confronted by 
six rifles pointed in their faces and ordered to make no outcry on 
penalty of death. They were disarmed, placed on their horses and 
taken some distance from their comrades. The Captain was sent 
back to the latter with a message that if he and his companions 
would immediately return to Iowa, promise not to return again, 
and as an earnest of their good faith be at a certain point near the 


256 The James, and Youngers. 

Missouri and Iowa line on a certain day, the Colonel, who until that 
time they proposed to hold as hostage, should be returned to them 
safe and sound with their arms. If they refused to comply, the 
Colonel was to be killed. Under the circumstances, and knowing 
they would certainly keep their word, it was the only thing to be 
done to save the life of the Colonel. The armed force retraced their 
steps and the robbers kept their promise. Not long after this my 
heart was deeply touched over the suffering and bereavement of a 
noble lady, the wife of an ex-Colonel in the Union army, one of 
Pinkerton’s detectives of Chicago, who had been sent down to cap¬ 
ture the James boys. She had come after the dead body of her hus¬ 
band to take it to Chicago. I have now forgotten his name. About 
all we know of this transaction is as follows: The detective had 
gone to Lexington, south of the Missouri River, had left some 
money and valuables with the banker there, quietly imparting to the 
bank president and no one else, his mission. Some few miles east 
of Lexington the road leading to Sedalia is joined by one crossing 
the river from the north. This latter road on the north side of the 
river passes the James, or Mrs. Samuels farm. A ferry conveys 
travelers and vehicles on this road across the river. The ferryman 
relates that a man dressed in laborer’s clothes crossed northbound, 
asking for work, and that he directed him to the Samuels farm. 
That on the next morning early, Jesse and Frank James and another 
companion, supposed to be Clel Miller, all well armed and mounted, 
crossed the ferry going south toward the Sedalia and Lexington 
road, having a fourth person, the man who had inquired for work 
the day before, securely bound on a horse. The body of this man 
was afterward found at the junction of these two roads hanging 
to a tree, shot full of holes, with the following writing pinned on 
the dead man’s clothes: “This is a Pinkerton detective sent from 
Chicago to capture the James boys.” To this writing the names of 
Jesse and Frank James were signed. The next effort was to cap¬ 
ture the Youngers by a St. Louis and a Chicago detective. They 
went to St. Clair County and prevailed upon Bud Daniels, then 
deputy sheriff, to accompany them to the Mrs. Snuffer, or Younger 
farm. Bud Daniels was an unerring shot and notedly brave and 
fearless. They rode up to the Snuffer house and calling her to the 
door, asked for a drink of water. As she was accommodating them 
one of them casually asked if the Younger boys did not live some- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


257 


where in that neighborhood. She replied they lived there, and that 
James and John were then in the house eating breakfast. They 
thanked her and rode off. On going in, James asked her who were 
out there. She did not know them, but detailed what had hap¬ 
pened. James said, “Now, John, those fellows are after us. Let us 
go and capture them.” They mounted their horses and followed, 
overtaking them but a short distance from the house, where they 
had halted to hold a consultation. Daniels and the detectives were 
unfortunately armed with revolvers only. The Youngers had 
breech-loading rifles, and as soon as they came in sight of the others 
they drew their rifles on them and ordered a surrender. The 
Youngers were beyond the reach of their revolvers and of course 
the officers were at their mercy. Daniels advised a surrender, as 
with the unerring aim of the Youngers it meant death to all three 
to resist. They surrendered, delivering up their arms. Here a fatal 
mistake was made by the Chicago detective. He had concealed in 
his pocket a small pistol and when John Younger’s attention was 
turned, he shot him through the heart. He then shot James 
through the hip. After John was shot, he whirled in his saddle and 
shot the Chicago detective, fatally wounding him, and then dropped 
dead from his horse. In the meantime James Younger, although 
badly wounded, turned and shot Bud Daniels dead. When the 
firing began the St. Louis detective rode off as rapidly as his horse 
would carry him. James rode after him, but in his wounded condi¬ 
tion had to give up the pursuit. While he was gone the Chicago 
detective crawled into the brush. As James came back he called to 
a colored man plowing in a field nearby to come and take care of 
John, as he was dead, remarking as he left, “I’ve got to get out of 
here as I presume there are more of them around here after us.” 
The wife of this wounded detective came to him and with what 
medical skill she could obtain,tried for three weeks to nurse him into 
life at a neighboring farm house close to the scene of the tragedy. 
Her efforts were fruitless and she ultimately passed through Sedalia 
with his dead body. Pinkertons next attempted to capture the James 
boys by a squad of some thirty well-armed horsemen sent by way 
of the North Missouri railroad. The men and horses were taken 
by a passanger coach and box cars to a point on the railroad oppo¬ 
site the Samuels residence. They approached the house in the night 
and tried to burn it by means of large balls of cotton fastened on 


258 


The James and Youngers. 


wire and saturated with coal oil. They set fire to these balls and 
inserted the wires under the weather boarding. They threw hand 
grenades into the house. These exploding, killed a colored servant 
girl and so badly wounded Mrs. Samuels that she lost an arm. The 
attempt to burn the house was a failure, for the Pinkerton force was 
attacked in the rear by the James boys and a number badly 
wounded. They retreated, carrying their wounded with them, and 
left the State as secretly as they had come. After this Mrs. Sam¬ 
uels abandoned the farm, moving to Kansas City. She 
had at one time a poor, honest, hard-working man as a tenant on 
her farm, who had come from the State of Illinois with a wife and 
family of five children. He was a Christian, had worked hard, had 
large crops then growing on the farm, and was highly respected in 
the neighborhood. Mrs. Samuels quarreled with this man as to her 
share of something which had been divided. In her passion she 
made some statements which her tenant told her were incorrect 
and was proceeding to explain when she interrupted him by saying: 
“You have called me a liar. I will go and tell Jesse and he will kill 
you.” Her tenant protested he had not done so; but she left in 
great wrath. Later, as the tenant was talking to a neighbor in 
front of the tenant’s door, Jesse Tames on horseback, dashed 
through the corn by the house, and covering the tenant with a revol¬ 
ver, said to him : “Did you not know better than to call my mother 
a liar?” The tenant protested it was a mistake and he had no such 
intention. “I am going to kill you,” said Jesse, “and now give you 
just time to say good-bye to your family.” The tenant asked for 
time to pray also, which was granted. After kissing and embracing 
his wife and children, he knelt down in the front yard to pray. He, 
in an audible and pathetic voice, called God to witness he had not 
done that of which he was charged. He invoked the aid of God in 
taking care of and providing for his needy, loving family there 
among strangers when he was gone, and to so direct their steps as 
that they should ultimately meet and form a reunited family in 
heaven. A more heartrending scene was possibly never witnessed, 
than this man on his knees pouring out his soul to God in what he 
supposed to be his last prayer on earth, with his wife and five chil¬ 
dren beside him in that farm yard with hands clasped and eyes 
raised to heaven, all in mighty prayer. As the father closed, his 
beautiful sixteen-year-old daughter clasped him around the neck, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


259 


and shielding his body with her own, begged the bandit in most piti¬ 
ful words and beseeching attitude to spare her father’s life. Some¬ 
thing about the girl touched Jesse James for once. ' It was singular, 
for he was most unrelenting and cruel in his inclination to kill. He 
agreed to spare his life on condition that in three hours the tenant 
and his family should leave the place. The latter, with what few 
personal effects he could gather up and haul away, complied with 
the conditions, leaving all else, including his hard-earned crops, and 
was never seen there afterward. Jesse James was a most blood¬ 
thirsty man and seldom spared his victim. Frank was more hu¬ 
mane and more than once interfered to save life. A short while 
after the incidents above related, the two James and three Younger 
boys, Cole, James and Bob, and three other companions, Clel Miller, 
Charlie Pitts and Hobbs Kerry, held up the train and robbed the 
express car of a very large amount of money at a watering station 
on the Missouri-Pacific railroad, some fifteen miles east of Sedalia, 
near Otterville. A small stream, well timbered, crosses the railroad 
at this point, running south to the Osage River. Beginning in 
Kansas, the Osage runs easterly almost parallel with the Missouri, 
some sixty miles south of it, and about thirty miles south of Sedalia, 
until it turns abruptly east of Jefferson City and flows into the 
Missouri. After the robbing the bandits took their course down 
this little timbered stream to the Osage. The robbery was immedi¬ 
ately telegraphed to Sedalia, and within a few hours General Bacon 
Montgomery, with eight other fearless and most daring characters 
who had followed him in fighting the famous Quantrell band of out¬ 
laws during the war, and to which the James and Younger boys 
belonged, was on their trail down this ravine. If there was any 
person whom these bandits really feared, it was “Bacon Montgom¬ 
ery,” as he was called. At the breaking out of the war, Montgom¬ 
ery was editing a Democratic paper at Georgetown, then the county 
seat of Pettis County, Missouri. Although Montgomery had at one 
time during the “border ruffian” troubles, taken a company into 
Kansas from Pettis County to vote the Democratic ticket, yet he 
stood by the Union when secession was proclaimed. Quantrell at¬ 
tempted to capture him, but failed. He, however, destroyed his 
printing press, and in the attack Montgomery’s mother was killed. 
This maddened Montgomery, he raised a regiment of most daring 
men in his own neighborhood, and sent word to Quantrell he would 


26 o 


The James and Youngers. 


follow him until he killed him, if that should be to the end of the 
earth. At one time he attacked Quantrell’s command, quartered at 
the house of a Confederate sympathizer a few miles south of Sedalia. 
They were about evenly matched in numbers and the fight was des¬ 
perate and bloody, both being cavalry. The combatants obtained 
possession of the house alternately, the family having taken refuge 
in the cellar. Montgomery’s forces burned the house and finally 
routed Quantrell’s command, though the latter commander escaped. 
When pursuing the train robbers to the Osage, Montgomery refused 
to take with him more men than the number of bandits. He said if 
he could not whip them fairly he would not fight at all. Major 
Tames Woods, Captain L. L. Bridges and myself, with twenty other 
horsemen, took train on the Missouri, Kansas & Texas railroad to 
the Osage and guarded the roads and fords crossing that river in 
front of the outlaws to prevent their passage south. Finding they 
were intercepted, they doubled back on their trail. They had gone 
aside from the road on a little eminence in the woods to divide their 
booty. They saw Montgomery as he passed, he not observing 
them, but were afraid to attack, as Montgomery’s men were armed 
with repeating rifles and they had only revolvers. We found much 
cheap jewelry, express orders and receipts, and many other value¬ 
less articles where they divided their spoils. After eight days’ chase 
and sleeping in the woods, we succeeded in capturing Hobbs Kerry, 
one of the gang, who was sent to prison for a term of years. The 
other outlaws made their way to Minnesota, where they perpetrated 
the Northfield bank robbery, in which two of them, Clel Miller and 
Charlie Pitts, were killed, the three Youngers captured, and the two 
James’ escaped. Cole and Jim Younger were sentenced to life im¬ 
prisonments, but were pardoned and liberated within the last few 
years, Bob Younger having died in the Minnesota penitentiary. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


261 


A Visit Home. 

J ACK was soon elected Common Pleas judge. Minerva had at 
one time jocously remarked to him, “We shall be married 
when you get to be a judge/' “I fear we shall live a long- 
while single then ,” he rejoined. Singular how forcefully he re¬ 
membered this remark of her when the event did ultimately come. 
The law practice of his firm had increased quite rapidly and 
they were engaged as attorneys in many cases at the term in which 
he entered on his duties as Judge. He had not ceased pressing his 
suit with Minerva. He wrote her of his election, asking if she 
could not dismiss all her misgivings and consequent refusal as to 
their marriage. His letter was long and argumentative, coupled 
with most tender expressions and picturing in glowing terms a 
truly promising, happy married life in a desirable climate, delightful 
new country, and among good, educated people. He threw all his 
force and persuasive ability into that letter, reminding her of his 
life of affection for her since childhood. He soon received a reply 
that chilled his very soul and almost caused him to lose all hope. 
She seemed greatly rejoiced at his attainment, and cheerily wrote 
she always expected it. She regretted she did not have the privil¬ 
ege of being the first to congratulate him, as had been the case on 
many an occasion before. Though coming late, she hoped it would 
be received as none the less cordial than of old. But she regretted 
she could not take as roseate view of their proposed wedded life as 
he, and suggested that further contemplation of it must be aban¬ 
doned. This letter was greatly disappointing and yet he imagined 
from some features of it he could still see a lingering ray of hope. 
He therefore kept pressing his suit. He had been in the practice of 
law over six years and he determined, on the close of his next term 
of court, to go and see Minerva personally and make a last appeal. 
He was longing to see her anyway, and his life was most miserably 
lonely. He longed to visit the old grounds they had so often 
strolled over in childhood and the subsequent days of their love, no 
matter if he had to do it alone. 


262 


Retrospect. 


Retrospect. 

A T the close of his next term of court Jack took the train to 
visit his old home without giving Minerva any indication 
L of his purpose, hoping that a personal interview and his 
presence and assurances might overcome all her ill-founded fears, 
as it appeared to him. When he arrived at her home, his heart sick¬ 
ened within him to learn Minerva had some three days before 
started on a protracted journey to California and the Northwest. 
Her itinerary was not defined and he knew not where to intercept 
her. He felt he could not remain even at his old home without the 
presence of Minerva, and after remaining some three days concluded 
to return to his Western home and his official duties, hoping to 
repeat this visit upon Minerva’s return. Before doing so, and filled 
with recollections of the past, he decided to once again visit the 
happy trysting places near the old Tavern where he had spent so 
many “golden” hours with Minerva. He strolled in the gloaming 
of the evening along the road from the VanPelt schoolhouse past 
our grandfather’s home to the Woods farm beyond the tollgate. 
He stood with tearful eyes looking over at the Chandler mansion 
as he thought of dear old friend Charlie. Cherished thoughts of 
sacred hours now gone forever, crowded thick and fast upon his 
heated memory and his heart sickened with an ungratified longing 
foi one—only one—sweet hour of long ago. A sense of abject, lone¬ 
liness stole over him. As he leaned for support against the friendly 
fence by the roadside, in view of the Chandler residence, surveying 
the same glorious, slumbering landscape which Minerva and he had 
so often viewed and admired together, he stretched his arms implor¬ 
ingly to heaven, and in his silent agony, tried in longing imagina¬ 
tion to catch a glimpse of her blessed face among the shining stars, 
but their bright scintillations reflected no image, and the blue, cold 
vault of the celestial kingdom gave no answer. Getting over the 
fence, he threw himself down on the green grass of the meadow- 
land and exposing his heated brow to the refreshing autumn breeze, 
he lived over again for one hour, the happy, joyous times spent along 


Bonnie Belmont. 


263 

that road. One notable occasion he recalled as prophetic. Min¬ 
erva and he had been spending the evening with our friends, Mr. 
and Mrs. Woods. On their way home they paused at the stile 
crossing of the fence to the Chandler house to take in the delightful 
autumn moonlight and surrounding scenery. While seated on the 
stile the beautiful wings of a dagon fly flitted past him, and 
lighted upon Minerva’s lap. The many colors of the rainbow 
were reflected in its transparent wings. As she viewed it, she ex¬ 
claimed, “What matchless blending of colors in these beautiful 
wings, especially when we reflect upon its humble origin! Do you 
know, I sometimes think its life and evolution from the grub to the 
winged state are very typical of man’s life and his future?” “Oh, 
yes, Minerva,” he said, “you have a beautiful allegory of man’s 
present and future state in the dragon fly, of which I only heard 
you relate a closing portion to a friend when I interrupted you 
once. I have ever since desired to hear it all, and now that I have 
the opportunity will you kindly favor me with it?” “I do not know 
that I can give it correctly,” she replied, “but I can possibly give 
the idea. You know the grubs of this fly live and propagate under 
the water on the roots of weeds which ordinarily grow in small 
pools in the woods and margins. A colony of these, so the fable 
goes, noticing the daily disappearance of a frog from the pool, finally 
determined to interrogate their neighbor as to the strange world 
above to which he made daily visits. In the evening, when the frog 
returned, he was invited to a conference, and the spokesman in¬ 
quired what there was in that other upper world which he visited. 
Tt is no such thing as another world,’ said the frog. Tt is all one 
world. Up above this water are beautiful flowers and trees, the sun, 
moon and stars, whose images are so correctly reflected in this 
water, and there are birds of beautiful plumage and animals with 
man to govern them. If you will go up there tomorrow you will all 
see for yourselves.’ The grubs were skeptical and did not believe. 
However, on the morrow they determined to test the truthfulness of 
the story by sending one of their number. He crawled slowly up a 
reed until his head projected above the water, when he instantly 
tell back into the water almost lifeless among his grub friends. 
When the frog returned that evening he was told of the episode and 
denounced as an imposter. A few evenings after the frog appeared 
before his grub acquaintances and stated that he had been over to 


264 


Retrospect. 


the other side of the pond that morning where the sun shone more 
brightly, and had observed a grub slowly emerging from the water 
up a reed. That after his body was entirely outside the water, 
under the rays of the sun the skin, or shell, of the grub bursted and 
there emerged a beautiful rainbow colored bird with most exquis¬ 
ite wings, and it was then flying around up there in that place 
they called the other world, with joyous gladness in the bright 
sunlight, while the old body or shell was still fastened to the reed. 
This was not believed by the grubs and the frog bade them a final 
farewell. A few days later one of these grubs, actuated by a 
strange desire to climb upwards, started up a reed and was never 
seen by his companions afterward. And so it continued until all 
were gone but one. In his loneliness he started to the other side of 
the pond, hoping to find some grub companions. On his road he 
met the frog, who told him there were no longer any grubs there, 
that they had all gone to the world above and become birds of 
beauty along with his former companions, and that on the morrow, 
or soon, he would likely follow them. Now,” said Minerva, “how 
like the problem of life in man! When we die we throw off these 
mortal shells or bodies of ours, but what becomes of the spirits? 
May it not be that under the life-giving rays of the Sun of Right¬ 
eousness the disembodied spirits of loved ones are at this very mo¬ 
ment on wings more beautiful than these hovering over and near 
us, and like the grub, we know it not and cannot comprehend the 
glory of their heavenly state, nor the beauty of their apparel?” 

Jack thought of this and a hundred other happy incidents in 
their lives and courtship from childhood to the hour of their last 
separation. He thought of how even a life she had lived and how 
always animated by noble motives. He thought of how many times 
he had found her at the home of the sick and destitute. How she 
was always engaged in making smooth the pathway of others. Of 
her kind and sympathetic heart. And he knew she was too good 
for his companionship. As he arose from his reverie on the friendly 
green sward, he could scarcely realize he had not been talking to 
Minerva in person and that it was not the same night as when they 
were there together six years before, and she had related this beau¬ 
tiful allegory. He turned half expecting to find her at his side, 
ready to finish their walk to her home as they did then. She was 
not there. He looked for the old friendly stile, but it had gone, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


265 


and where it stood a gate opened into a ten-acre lot purchased out 
of that meadowland by a stranger. He walked silently, sadly, 
broken-heartedly, down past her home. The tollgate was still there, 
but Minerva’s home was filled by others. Living and dreaming in 
the bygones, he walked on to the little hillock in the road beyond 
the Tavern, and instinctively turned to wave her a last good-night. 
She was not at the gate. The kindly flutter of her small white 
handkerchief did not greet him. A realizing sense of her absence 
and of his utter loneliness tor the remainder of life came over him, 
and he felt crushed and desolate. In his agony he now feared there 
was no hope, no expectation, no joy left in what little of life re¬ 
mained, excepting that of living over again the joyous days of their 
love. The following beautiful lines of Moore came to him with 
renewed meaning: 

“Let fate do her worst. There are relics of joy, 

Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy; 

They come in the night time with sorrow and care, 

And bring back the features that joy used to wear . 

Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! 

Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled, 

You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 

But the scent of the roses will cling ’round it still.’’ 

In the hazy moonlight he looked over at his old farm. All 
seemed peaceful there. The broad fields seemed like they used 
to, and the favorite spots of woodland where Minerva and he had 
so often strolled, had taken on a russet hue. The cocks from the 
old barnyard were calling the hour of ten, and he could hear the 
subdued tinkle of the cow-bell in the distance. The bleating lamb 
called to its mother and was answered by the quickened whistle of 
the whipporwill. He could hear the distant town clock striking, 
and in imagination he could see his family, father, mother, brothers 
and sisters, seated around the cheerful fireside, all there but him 
He started to go home, but oh, God! he reflected, that house is now 
filled by strangers. Jack spent a night of great anguish and on the fol¬ 
lowing day returned to the West. 


266 


Bad News. 


Bad News. 

O NE evening he opened the wrapper enclosing a newspaper 
which some one had sent him from Minerva’s home. IT 
CONTAINED A MARKED NOTICE OF THE 
DEATH OF MINERVA PATTERSON. She had died of pneu¬ 
monia some five days before at the house of Doctor Patterson, so 
the notice stated, and when Jack received the news she was already 
buried. This information was sudden and terrible. He had not even 
heard she was sick. It crushed him to the very earth. His cup of 
bitterness was full. Apparently his night of remaining existence 
had set in. I pass over that agonizing night. A day or so after 
receiving this news and while Jack was still suffering untold agony 
from the shock it gave, he met a gentleman from Wheeling 
passing through to the West, who confirmed the news of the death 
of Minerva. He stated the death was very sudden and quite a sur¬ 
prise to all. Jack had no desire to live longer. The whole object 
of life to him was gone. He saw no use then in living. And yet 
he knew it ignoble and cowardly not to do so. No, he felt he must 
live out the miserable remnant of existence left him as a just recom¬ 
pense for his folly and stupidity. No one can imagine the bitterness 
of his sorrow. He would not have cared for this, nay, he would 
have cheerfully taken up his lonely life burden, could he have had 
but one short half hour to lay his whole heart open to Minerva, 
explain to her, humbly ask her forgiveness, and receive it before 
she died. His health broke down quickly under his suffering, and 
his term of office expiring shortly after his sorrow, he determined 
to leave Missouri, hoping to find a more congenial climate. He 
could not then realize his was a sickness of the soul which no cli¬ 
mate could heal. He could not brook the idea of returning to his 
native County, he did not wish to look upon Minerva’s grave. 
His term of office having now expired, he determined to cut off 
all communication with home, hoping among strangers and amid 
new scenes to forget, as far as possible, his great sorrow. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


267 


Beautiful Indian River. 

T ired and worn out with life’s labors and its bereavements, 
jack decided to make me a visit, hoping to regain his peace 
of mind and recover his health amid the orange blossoms 
on the classic borders of beautiful Indian River. Near Titusville, 
on the east coast of Florida, on a strip of land between this river 
and the ocean and fronting on both, is the far-famed romantic 
“Dummitt Orange Grove,” father of the justly celebrated Indian 
River Orange. I became the owner of this grove. It is a grove 
with a romance, in this State of romances. It was formerly the 
property of Captain Dummitt, and General Hardee, of the Confed¬ 
erate army, and was subsequently owned by the Duke of Castel- 
lucia, now deceased, who placed upon it lavish expenditures. The 
world has but one Indian River. No American who is able to do 
so, should die without seeing it. Its waters are at all times clear 
as crystal. It is sea water and formed by an inlet of the ocean at 
Jupiter, from which point it extends north one hundred and forty 
miles to Dummitt Grove, where its head waters spread out into a 
lake six miles wide and ten miles long. Here it is overlapped some 
ten miles between it and the ocean by the Halifax River, formed by 
another inlet of the ocean some forty miles north. The last named 
river, by canals recently constructed, extends practically to St. Au¬ 
gustine, and is connected with Indian River by a canal just north 
of Dummitt Grove, affording delightful inland navigation by steam 
and sail from St. Augustine to Miami, well down on the east coast 
of Florida, some two hundred and fifty miles. These rivers vary 
from one to six miles in width, running parallel with and for a 
major portion of the distance in full view of old Ocean. Inter¬ 
vening is a narrow strip of land upon which can be seen in pictur¬ 
esque beauty and attractive loveliness, pineapple plantations, orange 
and lemon groves, with the stately palms, cocoanuts and other tropi¬ 
cal trees and fruits. Along its shores the India rubber tree abounds, 
occasionally having for its neighbor the ever curious banyan with its 
multiplied trunks and complicated branches and foliage. There is 


268 


Beautiful Indian River. 


certainly no more beautiful field crop than the pineapple; while in 
the orchard line, the orange grove surpasses all others. Until the 
fruiting season arrives there is, in appearance, practically but little 
difference between a pineapple and century plant. The pineapple 
is propagated from suckers, slips and crowns, and they bear from 
two to three years after planting at a net profit of from two hundred 
to six hundred dollars per acre. There is no more delightful avoca¬ 
tion than its culture, unless it be orange raising, and these can be 
conducted together, as the pineapple fruits in summer and the 
orange in winter preventing interference of crops and labor. Pine¬ 
apples are planted in rows from twenty to twenty-four inches apart 
each way. The suckers, of which there are from one to two to a 
plant, spring from the plant near the ground. These are broken 
off and when stuck in the sand immediately become plants. The 
slips are embryo plants which spring around the base of the apple, 
varying in number from one to eight to the apple. They are planted 
like the suckers. The crown is the blossom end of the apple which 
can be cut off and planted, though not as desirable as the others. 
The apple is produced on a stem which puts out from the top of 
the plant coming up about as high as the watch fob, the ordinary 
production being one apple to a plant, though sometimes two are 
produced. When the apple is taken off all suckers excepting one 
are removed, leaving this to form the plant for the next year’s crop. 
The plantation is renewed in from five to seven years, depending on 
the fertility of soil and vigor of plants. In the fruiting season of 
this delicious fruit, the rich golden hue of the apple presents a 
striking contrast with the deep green of the plant tinged by the 
rays of the morning sun as he rises out of the ocean and shimmers 
across the placid crystal waters of Indian River to kiss the orange 
and banana groves and scented flowers along its shores. The 
views are most enchanting along this river. Beheld on a genial 
winter’s day (and all days are genial here) from the fine steamers 
which ply this river, the scenery from Titusville to Miami is one 
never to be forgotten. No one visits Indian River in the winter 
season without a desire to return. The strange soft breezes which 
fan the temples in that delightful clime, bring whisperings of sweet 
bygone dreams half forgotten in fields elysian. It seems impossible 
of explanation ; and one wonders why the feeling springs or whence 
its origin. As you take in the enraptured scene, new tropical trees, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


269 


plants and Rowers appear in view and the heart leaps in gladness at 
their wondrous beauty and delicious fragrance. In contemplating 
the delightful climate of Indian River in winter, one feels he would 
not change it if he could. All the days are genial sunshine, and an 
Indian River moonlight is simply beyond description. It is the land 
oi lover’s dreams, is this American Italy, “down by the sounding 
sea.” Many wealthy Americans and Englishmen are building 
costly homes looking out on Indian River and the Atlantic. As 
you skim along the waters of Lake Worth at the lower extremity of 
Indian River, from a cocoanut grove on its eastern shore there 
bursts into view the most gorgeous tree the world has ever pro¬ 
duced. It is a medium sized tree of most beautiful red flowers over 
a foot long. At a distance it looks like a tree of flaming fire, re¬ 
minding one of an exaggerated production of the burning bush of 
Moses. On closer approach it changes to a tree of surprising, inde¬ 
scribable loveliness. It is simply stupendous in its grandeur, as if 
suggesting that nature in her floral domain had made one supreme 
effort to surpass all others. This grandest of all trees is appropri¬ 
ately named, and is the pride of Florida’s citizens and the astonish¬ 
ment of all observers. It is called the “Royal Poinciana.” Beauti¬ 
ful, dreamy Indian River! Surely at no distant day, you will be¬ 
come the classic and climatic pride of the American people. 


27 o 


Dummitt Orange Grove. 


Dummitt Orange Grove. 

I N 1767, when the east coast of Florida was a pathless wilder¬ 
ness, Doctor Turnbull obtained a grant of land extending along 
the Atlantic coast from a short distance south of St. Augustine 
to the head of Indian River. He prevailed upon a number of the 
inhabitants of the Island of Minorca, some fifteen hundred in all, to 
come to this land with their families to engage in the raising of in¬ 
digo and sugar cane, and in the manufacture of indigo and sugar, 
promising each head of a family fifty acres of land, their provisions 
and other compensation. Instead of keeping this agreement, after 
he had transported them to this side of the ocean in his own boats, 
and they having no other means of communicating with their 
friends, he enslaved them. He and his company, by means of these 
slaves, cleared large tracts of this dense and heavily timbered ham¬ 
mock land at different points along the east coast, erected on them 
large stone buildings for sugar and indigo production, and for a 
period of many years of this enforced servitude, reaped large for¬ 
tunes from the business. At last, when those wronged and injured 
people had from ill-treatment been reduced to six hundred souls, 
three of them escaped, and making their way under circumstances 
of great hunger and privation to St. Augustine, laid their complaint 
before the Governor there, who immediately liberated them and 
‘‘got after” Doctor Turnbull and his company, who aban¬ 
doned their enterprise and left the country. Many descendants 
of these Minorcans can still be seen in and around St. Augustine. 
They are a dusky, industrious, kindly disposed people. On the de¬ 
parture of Turnbull, these improved hummocks again returned to 
the condition of primeval forests, and to-day in wandering through 
these jungles, one will ocasionally come across the decayed and 
decaying stone buildings, silent though potent monitors of a dark 
crime otherwise almost forgotten. Early in the present century Capt. 
Dummitt, who was an officer in the United States army and a par¬ 
ticipant in the Seminole war, and whose life was a sad romance, in 
passing through one of these hummocks, found in the heart of the 


Bonnie Belmont. 


271 


forest close beside one of these decayed buildings, an orange tree full 
of most delicious fruit. This tree had evidently sprung from a seed 
dropped by the Turnbull aristocracy long years before; and there 
untilled, unnurtured by the hand of man, but watched over by an 
omnipotent and ever-provident Power, was made to modestly blos¬ 
som and bring forth a fruit to gladden a world. That it sprang 
from a seed there is no doubt, for there is no other fruit like it and 
it has no equal. Thus nature, as if to right the great wrong perpe¬ 
trated through the cupidity and selfish brutality of man, brought 
forth a blessing to the human family, for Captain Dummitt took the 
buds from this tree and budded them into the native sour orange 
trees which he found growing on his land at the head of Indian 
River, which is now Dummitt Grove. He also took up the tree and 
planted it there. This grove has been greatly enlarged since, and 
from it have sprung, directly or indirectly, the other groves pro¬ 
ducing the “Dummitt” or “Indian River Orange.” Here then, in 
the balmy breezes of this delightful clime, and sitting in the shadow 
of the orange and the palm. Jack tried to soothe his suffering soul 
in the murmurs of “old Ocean.” Tried to forget the past and live 
for the future. But nothing could cure a sick mind over an oppor¬ 
tunity forever lost and forever remembered. As he sat one evening 
on one of the roomy porches of the Dummitt mansion looking 
out on Dummitt Bay, the low moanings of the ocean borne to his 
ears by the soft, sadly sighing breezes, sounded like the suppressed 
wail of a lost soul. Jack’s heart was all remorse—hopeless remorse. 
He felt that life with him had been a stupendous failure. The fol¬ 
lowing beautiful lines of Tychborn seemed so appropriately applic¬ 
able to him that he involuntarily repeated them. 

“My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; 

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green; 

My youth is dead, and yet I am but young; 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen; 

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; 

And now I live, and now my life is done.” 

He arose from his reverie and determined to shake off the 
feeling which appeared to be transforming him into a miserable 
misanthrope and making him old while yet a young man. Some 
nine years had intervened since leaving his home in Ohio. It was 


27 2 


Dummitt Orange Grove. 


in February, the orange crop had mostly been gathered and the 
trees were again in bloom, filling the air with their delightful per¬ 
fume; and there is certainly no odor more delightful than that of the 
orange blossom. This odor is very like that of the tuberose, but 
enlivened with an exquisiteness of smell far surpassing that flower. 
It is said before the other orange groves were planted on Indian 
River, the perfume from Dummit Grove could be smelled for fifty 
miles. In the winter season Indian River is a great resort for the 
wealthy pleasure seekers of the North, and to the invalid and infirm 
its cheery sunshine and genial climate are a veritable fountain of 
youth. The numerous towns and stopping places along the east 
coast and the Malifax on Indian rivers, such as Jacksonville, St. 
Augustine, Ormond, Daytona, New Smyrna, Titusville, Sharps, 
Cocoa, Rockledge, Melbourn, Fort Pierce, Ankona, Eden, Jensen, 
Palm Beach and Miami, are all delightful places of resort and recre¬ 
ation, but for natural scenery and great tropical beauty artificially 
adorned, Palm Beach, on classic Lake Worth, surpasses them all. 
The “Royal Poinciana” hotel is erected at this place by the inimit¬ 
able H. M. Flagler, owner of the Florida East Coast railway, and 
one of the Standard Oil magnates. This hotel is a stupendous and 
fashionable affair and with the other hotels and stopping places, 
furnishes pleasant accommodations for many hundreds of guests, 
and are always crowded during the visiting season by the wealthy 
traveling public. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


273 


A Startling Surprise. 

O N the next morning after Jack’s reverie on the veranda at 
Dummitt Grove, he started on a trip down the Indian 
River in his two-masted “Sharpie” sail boat, to Lake 
Worth and Palm Beach, one hundred and fifty miles south, intend¬ 
ing to take in at his leisure the different stopping places along the 
shores on the way. He had been living the life of a recluse and 
knew that his mind was becoming morbid and sick. He longed for 
something he could not supply, and imagined a change of scenery 
and the society of others might bring some relief, no matter how 
temporary. The mingling with others and constant change of scen¬ 
ery interested him and caused him for the time being to partially 
forget his great sorrow and abject loneliness. As one travels to¬ 
ward Lake Worth the scenery becomes more tropical and engaging, 
and he is surprised to know there is such a country within 
the limits of the United States. When with his colored boatman, 
Jack arrived at Jupiter, he was compelled to pass out through the 
inlet to the ocean and then after a sail of eight miles on the latter to 
pass back and by another inlet into the beautiful waters of Lake 
Worth. At that time it was not connected with Indian River by 
canal as it now is. They were then connected by the “Celestial 
Railway,” so-called from Jupiter, the northern terminus at the lower 
end of Indian River, Juno its southern terminus at the northern 
end of Lake Worth, and Venus a town intermediate. The whole 
road was but eight miles long. Who can describe the natural 
grandeur of Lake Worth? I certainly cannot, and all that is left me 
is to give a faint idea sufficient for the purposes of this narrative. 
It is a body of sea water twenty-five miles long and averaging pos¬ 
sibly one-half to three-quarters of a mile wide throughout its entire 
length, with a small island or two most deftly and captivatingly 
placed amid its crystal waters. The inlet is small, thus giving the 
lake a happy, quiescent immunity from the storms which agitate 
its parent, the ocean. Its clear, placid waters reflect the cloudless 
skies and sparkling stars that shine above and help to form a mirror 


274 


A Startling Surprise. 


of reflecting beauty. When the moon, through an ever clear atmos¬ 
phere, adds its effulgence to the celestial display, its reflecting 
waters become a picture of surprising grandeur. Around its shores 
on a moonlight night are reflected the shadows of the stately palm, 
the fragrant orange tree, the cocoanut, the banyan, the rubber tree, 
the umbrella tree, the mulberry, the cinnamon, the magnolia and the 
gorgeous royal poinciana, forming an attractive margin to a de¬ 
lightful picture. Nor is this all. To it may be added many hun¬ 
dreds of tropical and sub-tropical trees, plants and flowers. Here 
during the day the sun scarcely ever ceases to shine. It may rain, 
though very seldom in winter, but in an hour the sky is clear, the 
sun is shining and all nature laughs again. The lands along this 
lake on either shore, and especially near the Royal Poinciana hotel, 
are laid out in the most beautiful flowery walks and gardens of all 
kinds of plants and flowers, with shady bowers, romantic nooks and 
retreats, interspersed with sparkling fountains. In the adornment 
of the grounds of the Oil King connected with the Royal Poinciana, 
wealth has been expended with a lavish hand. Its beauty is more 
than I had ever imagined, and exceeded by far my most fabulous 
dreams. The clean shores of Lake Worth extending down to the 
water’s edge with a gentle slope of green grass, left but little margin 
of clean, white, sandy beach. The elevation of the land above the 
water is possibly little over ten feet. 

When Jack’s boat entered the upper end of Lake Worth he could 
see gondolas, naphtha launches and beautiful boats of all kinds putting 
out from the shores heavily freighted with joyous, happy souls bent 
upon pleasure trips and fishing excursions up and down the lake. He 
was struck with the costly finish of these boats. Small fortunes must 
have been expended on many of them. Jack’s “Sharpie” was reck¬ 
oned the prettiest boat on the upper river, but here she was dis¬ 
tinctly outclassd. It was about ten o’clock in the morning of an 
ideal day, and Jack stood on the deck of his neat little boat (for he 
was indeed proud of her) he could see the walks of these beautiful 
flowery parks filled with finely dressed men, women and children, 
some walking leisurely around, some sitting looking idly out upon 
the lake, some reading, and others evidently making love. As he 
took in the rapturous scene he thought what a delightful place for 
lovers. It looked to him like a fairyland. When he arrived at the 
beach in front of Mrs. Moore’s mansion, at the north end of what 


Bonnie Belmont. 


275 

was then the McCormac park, subsequently added to that of the 
Royal Poinciana, he tied his boat and went ashore, stopping at the 
Moore house. This was a pleasant and entertaining place. From 
the Royal Poinciana to the ocean beach is a liberal avenue over a 
quarter of a mile in length, skirted with palmetto and palm trees 
and various shrubs and flowers. After Jack had taken his noon 
luncheon and a rest, he took a book which he was reading and 
sauntered out this avenue to the ocean. Along the beach, up and 
down for some distance, were little groups of from two to a half 
dozen persons gathering shells and whiling away the time. Occas¬ 
ionally a light laugh from some one of these happy people was borne 
to his ears on evening breeze, but each sounded to him like a hollow 
mockery. After taking in the ocean view and the fresh breeze for 
a time, he noticed far down the beach a gentleman and two ladies 
moving still farther away. One of the ladies was quite tall and 
stately and her graceful movement had such a striking familiarity 
about it that it filled Jack with a strange feeling. After remaining 
for a time, he turned, and slowly retracing the avenue, took a seat 
in the park with his back to a tree and the ocean and resumed the 
reading of his book. Many had passed him returning from the 
beach, but he was so absorbed in his book he gave little heed to them. 
Suddenly he heard a voice from one of these which startled him and 
he looked up to see the gentleman and two ladies whom he had 
observed far down the beach. They had passed without observing 
him, and he had not noticed them until they had gone by some little 
distance. They were engaged in animated conversation and the 
voice of the tall lady was what startled Jack. “I do not think I shall 
go/’ she said. “The water makes me sick and you two may go with 
the other lady and gentleman and leave me here. I shall enjoy it 
immensely here by myself and be much better satisfied.” It was 
getting too dark to read and Jack closed his book. He arose to his 
feet, but found he was trembling from head to foot. What had 
caused it? It was the voice and words of the tall lady. It was so' 
like the voice of long ago. The sensation kept him awake until late 
and he got but little sleep that night. The next morning, after a 
short walk through the park, he took a seat on the front veranda of 
the Royal Poinciana, among the many guests congregated there. 
The truth is, his experience of the previous afternoon and evening 
had brought an inexplicable desire to meet face to face the tall lady 


276 


A Startling Surprise. 


of the day before. Each observation of her afforded him had been 
at a distance, and at no time had he seen her face. After being 
seated for a while and not having his curiosity gratified, he con¬ 
cluded to walk to the sea beach, as from the tenor of what little of 
their conversation he had overheard the evening before, he inferred 
they, with others, contemplated a fishing excursion in the ocean, 
and he might there have an opportunity of meeting them. He 
slowly sauntered along the avenue and when he came in view of the 
ocean some distance away, he observed a party of five, in addition 
to the boatman, in the act of entering a small “cat boat.’’ Two of 
the passengers were gentlemen and three were ladies. One of the 
latter was his lady of the previous evening. It appeared they had 
prevailed upon her to accompany them, notwithstanding her previ¬ 
ously expressed disinclination to do so. Before Jack had reached 
the beach the gentle breeze had kissed the sail and the small craft 
with its precious freight had shot out into the water. Jack had lost 
another opportunity, and he stood watching them until the boat be¬ 
came a mere speck on the bosom of the great deep. He could not 
help observing the decided stillness of the ocean. In certain seasons 
of the year this is ominous. It proved so on this occasion. A gentle 
breeze had been blowing seaward and made admirable sailing. A 
“cat boat” is a small sail boat, having the shape of the letter V, 
with one mast at the bow, which is the acute angle of the boat. They 
are much used in fishing by excursion parties and are ordinarily 
regarded as safe boats so far as that term implies. But no small 
boat should be on the ocean in a storm. The chances are always 
against it. Jack concluded to take a seat near the beach at the end 
of the avenue and await the return of the boat in order to get a 
closer view of its occupants. He had been reading some¬ 
thing over an hour when a sense of extreme heat and oppres¬ 
siveness came over him and he felt decidedly uncomfortable. He 
laid aside the book and discovered the breeze had absolutely and en¬ 
tirely ceased. There was scarcely a breath of air and the stillness 
of death apparently pervaded all around. He knew this portended 
an approaching storm of no mean proportions. In deep apprehen¬ 
sion he looked for the boat. He saw it a mere speck in the distance, 
and back of it, far out on the ocean, a black gathering storm. He 
wondered why the boatman was not making for shore; but in a mo¬ 
ment he reflected, they were becalmed. No sail boat can travel with- 


Bonnie Belmont. 


277 


out wind. There was not a breath of it. He trembled for the safety 
of these excursionists in whom he had now unaccountably taken a 
deep interest. He knew that in time a breeze from the approaching 
storm would drive them seaward, but it depended entirely on the 
velocity of the wind and the skill of the man managing the frail 
boat, whether they would not be swamped or overturned in the 
mighty waves produced by such a dark and rapidly approaching 
gale. He also knew if they ever reached the shore their boat was 
liable to be dashed to pieces upon the beach by the mighty waves. 
Already he began to notice a swelling agitation of the water and that 
it was by slow returning pulsations creeping higher up the shore. 
Jack’s own experienced boatman, William, had followed him to the 
beach and Jack directed him to go quickly to his boat and bring a 
long bow line and so give warning at the hotel. A number of 
strong men were soon on the beach with other ropes to aid in the 
rescue if the boat ever was so fortunate as to reach the shore. They 
knew that in case it did the boat would likely be turned over on top 
of them. Their hope was to have them jump from the boat at the 
proper time and then catch the unfortunate victims before they were 
sucked back by the fearful and treacherous under-tow. This under¬ 
tow is a most dangerous thing. It has caused the death of many a 
victim when he imagined he was saved. It is a current 
of water below, traveling in a different direction from that on the 
surface, and in a direction toward the ocean. In a heavy storm its 
force is all-powerful. When a great wave dashes against the shore, 
the fearful contact drives it back into the sea. The monster wave 
following in its wake is likewise irresistible and passes over the 
former to spend its fury against the shore, while the receding wave 
beneath becomes a sucking monster of death. When a small boat 
strikes the shore under such conditions, if it is not overturned on its 
occupants and dashed to pieces, it trembles for a moment like a 
thing of life upon the beach and is then frequently, though not 
always, sucked under and engulfed by the under-tow and oncoming 
wave. Jack soon saw the boat was moving shoreward before the 
storm. His hope was that it might reach the shore before the 
storm burst on them in full fury. But he felt this could not be. 
They were to far at sea. He could see the man at the sail was a 
good mariner and understood his business. He seemed to know he 
had a fight with death, but did not lose his head. He made all speed 


A Startling Surprise. 


278 

possible, keeping every foot of canvas as long as the wind would 
permit and his frail bar would bear. Then amid the fury of it, he 
quickly and skillfully reefed his sail to suit. He avoided side 
strokes from the great frothy waves, with consummate skill. He 
won the admiration of those on the shore. He was a hero in the 
right place. But the storm grew terrible, and though he was near¬ 
ing the shore rapidly, he was forced to reduce his sail to a small 
“mutton leg,” and of course could not make rapid headway with it. 
The storm was growing worse and the wind was blowing a little 
athwart his direct course, yet he held his noble little boat by a won¬ 
derful dexterity direct for where Jack stood. The boatman knew 
too well the importance of landing where succor could be had from 
those on shore, now not far distant and in plain view. As the boat 
came nearer the peril of the occupants became apparent and the 
strain on those watching it, fearful. At one moment it would be 
perched high up on top of a mad giant wave and the next apparently 
pitching bow foremost down into the very heart of the ocean. The 
wind was blowing fearfully, sending the spray for two hundred 
yards up on the shore from the water’s edge. When a few hun¬ 
dred yards from the shore it became so furious the small line of the 
“mutton leg” sail parted and they were then left to the mercy of the 
wind and waves, for the rudder was of little or no account in 
managing the boat and keeping her head to the shore. Jack knew 
if she came sidewise she would most likely be overturned or 
swamped. He divested himself of all surplus clothing, including 
his shoes, tied one end of the long light bow line around his breast 
and shoulders and giving the other end to William and others on 
the beach out of reach of the waves, took his station close to the 
edge where the waves lashed the shore to await the climax. Two 
others with bow lines fastened to them stood at short distances 
from him. The boat was getting fearfully near, and while it had 
partially turned, Jack knew it was not sufficient to strike a full 
broadside upon the shore. The faces of the occupants were deathly 
pale. As the boat came in borne on the last wave, Jack shouted to 
the occupants with all his force, “Jump! If you value your lives, 
jump when the boat strikes the shore!” The boatman was clinging 
to his mast, and with bow line in hand, threw it ashore just as the 
boat struck, but those on the beach failed to catch it and it was 
dragged in by the under-tow and went out with the boat which, 


Bonnie Belmont. 


279 

fortunately, did not capsize or swamp. One lady next to Jack had 
heeded the warning, and just as the boat struck, threw herself into 
the water. Seeing her intention, Jack rushed into the wave and 
catching her in his arms they were both borne ashore. 
Their feet struck the beach, but scarcely had they done so 
dreadful under-tow swept under them and carried both back 
toward the ocean. But strong arms were at the other end of 
the line and they were quickly pulled ashore, with but lit¬ 
tle damage to either. As Jack assisted the lady to her feet 
their eyes met, and reeling with astonishment, he placed his 
hands over his eyes as if to shut out a horrible nightmare and ex¬ 
claimed, “Merciful God, Minerva, is this you?” “Yes, yes. But oh, 
save them. Please save them!” she cried frantically, as she pointed 
to the returning boat. He turned quickly and saw it was coming 
to the shore with a full broadside. The heroic boatman was again 
at the mast with the line in hand which he had gathered from the 
sea. The boat struck with a fearful thud and just as it did, one 
of the ladies and her husband sprang into the water together and 
were rescued. The other refused to jump and her husband gal¬ 
lantly remained with her. The sailor remained with his boat, 
though again those on the shore failed to grasp the line. By a kind 
of miraculous Providence the bow of the boat turned toward the 
sea and met the incoming wave-squarely in front. The storm was 
at the height of its fury and this rolling mountain was the largest of 
them all. Minerva stood clasping her hands in despair, for her 
friends were still in the boat. She looked imploringly at Jack as he 
nerved himself for the next effort., He thought he detected a trace 
of the old-time affection as he stole a quick glance just as he sprang 
to the water’s edge. The boat struck hard astern, upending it and 
throwing all on board into the sea. Fortunately none of them was 
thrown under it. The two men were quickly rescued by others. 
The woman fell near Jack and he caught her just as the under-tow 
was sweeping her away. She grasped him firmly and they were 
being rapidly pulled ashore when the boat, by a peculiar swash of 
the sea, was whirled round on its side and the projecting boom pole 
thrashing through the water, struck Jack hard on the back of the 
head. He felt his senses leaving him, though conscious he was 
being rapidly dragged ashore. But the world became a blank and 
he felt that he was dying. He was seemingly in a great storm, 


28 o 


A Startling Surprise. 




where all was darkness. But amid the alternate roar and rumbling 
of that storm could hear voices, but could see no faces. This ap¬ 
parently continued for some time. Finally senses and vision ap¬ 
peared to be returning and he imagined he still beheld the pale face 
of Minerva. Presently he heard a voice say, “Come on, now, 
let us get on some dry clothing. He will be all right presently.” 
In that sweetest voice on earth to Jack he heard the reply, “You 
may go if you like and I urge that you do so, but I shall never leave 
him until I know he is out of danger.” He opened his eyes and 
Minerva was kneeling by him and looking down into his face with 
one of his hands in hers and with the other stroking his forehead. 
That one look from her repaid him for all his past sorrow. After 
he had revived a little, with Minerva on one side and a kind- 
hearted gentleman on the other, whom he soon learned was a physi¬ 
cian, they started for Jack’s stopping place. Before they had tra¬ 
versed over two-thirds the distance, however, Jack became quite 
sick and in a partially unconscious condition was carried to Mrs. 
Moore’s. His exhaustion soon caused him to fall into a deep sleep 
in which it appeared to him he was undergoing much suffering. He 
awoke toward evening and Minerva was sitting at his bedside. 
“How do you feel,” she said tenderly, “now that you had a good 
sleep?” “With the exception of a sense of dizziness and a slight 
booming in my head, I feel quite refreshed,” he replied. “But Min¬ 
erva, tell me, am I still in the land of unconsciousness and is this all 
a dream, or are you really living?” “I am happy to inform you it is 
no dream and that I am still in the flesh, though I doubt if I would 
be had it not been for your efforts a few hours since,” she replied. 
“But Minerva, they told me you were dead and I have thought you 
so, and have acted upon it for more than two years. How did this 
happen? How could I be thus deceived? Oh, I must certainly still 
be in a state of half unconsciousness! It must be all a deceptive 
though pleasant dream to see you as I now apparently do with my 
eyes.” “There now,” she said as she stroked his fevered brow, 
“you must not talk. The doctor has forbidden it. We will talk 
this all over in the morning. If you will promise me not to talk now 
1 shall remain with you for an hour or more until the doctor 
comes, otherwise I shall have to obey his mandate and leave you at 
once. ,, She smiled kindly as she said this. “If my talking is to 
drive you from me I shall not open my lips again,” he replied, and 


Bonnie Belmont. 


281 

he lapsed into silence. He felt quite weak, but did not take 
his eyes off Minerva while she remained. He could not yet fully 
realize he was still living. In his half-dazed forebodings he imag¬ 
ined he was really dead and had met Minerva in that strange state 
of death. But there she sat before him in some form, either imagin¬ 
ary or real, and under her injunction and his promise, all he could 
do was to await the outcome. In the course of a couple of hours the 
doctor came, and after an examination assured him that with the 
medicine he would give and a quiet night, Jack would be much bet¬ 
ter in the morning. At his especial request and a promise he 
would refrain from talking, Minerva remained an hour longer. On 
leaving, she said: “Now I am going to leave you in charge of the 
nurse. They refused to permit any but the nurse with you at first, 
but I interceded with the physician and here I have been. You will 
be much better in the morning and if on conferring with him then 1 
find you are able, we will talk all these matters over. Now good¬ 
night, and promise me you will not think too much.” She pressed 
his hand, closed the door softly and Jack was left to his own 
thoughts. And what were they? Goodness knows they were com¬ 
plicated enough. He still had doubts of his early existence. He 
had seen Minerva, had talked with her, had felt her hand upon his 
head, and had touched her hand with his own. Then there was the 
doctor and the nurse whom he had seen and with whom he had 
conversed. But was not all this and the terrible storm and rescue 
but the continuation of a horrible dream from which he had not yet 
fully awakened? In the past years he had dreamed so often of 
meeting with Minerva, only to awaken to find it a pleasing decep¬ 
tion, that he imagined this a repetition of the old enrapturing allure¬ 
ments of dreamland, to be swept away as usual like the figures 
from a school boy’s slate with the passing of the night and the 
dawn of another dreary, lonesome day. The medicine administered 
conduced to his feeling somewhat. In his fitful half dreaming he 
could see the shadow of the nurse, a kindly middle-aged lady, as she 
passed to and fro across the room in the dim light. After one 
o’clock he fell into a profound slumber from which he did not awake 
until six in the morning. The bright, cheerful sunlight was shining 
in at the window and he felt refreshed and strong. He informed his 
nurse of his recovered condition and indicated his desire to arise at 
once. She retired and he was soon dressed and in an easy chair. 


282 


A Startling Surprise. 


He was so hungry he went to the diningroom and ate a good break¬ 
fast, which added greatly to his strength. The doctor came soon 
after and was much gratified. From the location of the stroke he 
feared complications at first, but was now glad to say all 
danger was passed. The morning being so lovely, as soon as the 
doctor left, Jack started for a little fresh air in the park. Just as he 
was passing down the walk from the Moore mansion he met Min¬ 
erva coming to inquire after him. The moment she saw him her 
look of care and anxiety was replaced by one of joyousness. “Oh, 
how delighted I am,” she said, as she took his arm, “to find you 
looking so much better! Now, really, how are you feeling this 
morning?” “I am quite myself again excepting a very slight dizzi¬ 
ness at times and this hideous lump on the back of my head,” he 
replied. “But how are you after your terrible experience of yes¬ 
terday, Minerva?” “Oh, I am quite well, indeed, if you will allow 
me to except a slight nervousness over the fright it gave. I did 
not wish to go on that excursion, and really, I had a misgiving be¬ 
fore starting which I could not explain.” He kept looking her in 
the face with such a blank stare as they stood on the walk that she 
noticed it and her face colored perceptibly. He broke the embar¬ 
rassment by saying, “Pardon me, Minerva, I know you think me 
impertinent in looking so steadily at you, but oh, I cannot realize I 
am looking at your living face. Do come now and explain fully 
how all this is. You know you have been dead to me for these 
long years and I can scarcely realize yet that you are truly living. 
When my eyes fell on your face yesterday, wet with the sea water, it 
shocked me so I almost sank down upon the beach under it. Come 
now, let us take this rustic seat looking out upon the lake by this 
cluster of oleanders and tell me how I was deceived.” He took her 
arm and they soon seated themselves under the shade of a friendly 
palm close by the fragrant oleanders. He told of how he had read 
of her death in the papers from home, of the confirmation of this 
news by the party from her home passing through on the train, of 
his great agony of remorse then and since, and of his final enforced 
life of a hermit. “It is all simply and easily explained,” she said. 
“It is not the first time I have heard I was dead. Others were like¬ 
wise deceived. The newspapers made a bungle of that obituary 
notice. It was a maiden aunt of mine after whom I was named, who 
was visiting us and who died quite suddenly at our home. 


Bonnie Belmont. 


2$3 

“I can see it all, Minerva,” he said, “and I can also see my 
own inexcusable stupidity, but why did you not reply to my last 
letter?” “I replied to it,” she rejoined, “after a time, but you must 
have left Missouri, for it came back to me.” She informed him she 
had been spending the winter with her cousin, who resided at St. 
Augustine, and who with her husband, were then with her on a 
three weeks’ visit to Palm Beach. That they were with her in the 
boat the day before and that the lady he had caught in the surf 
was her cousin. He related to Minerva his feelings and his whole 
life from the time he had left her for Missouri up to the time they 
were then talking together, of how he had made a visit to her home 
in Ohio and found she was visiting in the West, of the 
received news of her death, of his change of purpose and utter ina¬ 
bility to go home to stand over her grave, of his failure of health, 
and finally of coming to Florida to shake off his sorrow and hide 
from his consuming remorse. He talked to her long and earnestly 
and finally said: “Now Minerva, by all we have cherished between 
us in the dear past, by our blessed school days, by our once plighted 
love, by the sufferings I have passed through as a just recompense 
for my follies of over nine long years ago, by the love you once had 
for me and the sorrow I will yet have to undergo without you, will 
you not take me back again into your heart and renew with me our 
old love and plighted faith?” As he said this he took both her 
hands and pressed them warmly between his own. He noticed she 
made no effort to withdraw them. With her ever frankness of ex¬ 
pression she looked him again full in the face and said: “Had you 
asked me this day before yesterday my answer would have been 
different from what I shall give today. I have changed my views 
on some things in the last twenty-four hours. I find I have been 
setting too high an estimate on the perfection of human judgment 
and action. In this I do not fail to include myself. I think we have 
both erred and am certainly willing to bear at least half the blame. 
When our differences first arose I imagined you doubted my integ¬ 
rity as a lover, and looked upon me as a deceitful flirt not only with 
you but with other gentlemen. It cut me to the soul, for deceptions 
of all kinds have always been farthest from my heart. But my great 
animating motive in refusing a reconciliation was, that you could 
not really have that love for me such as man should have for a wife 
and believe me guilty of such deception, and that as a consequence 
our married life would not be a happy one. In this I desired to save 


284 


A Startling Surprise. 


you unhappiness as well as myself. I had firmly determined never 
to marry you. This determination was not a discrimination against 
you alone, for I felt if you could not love me and treat me accord¬ 
ing to this standard of high perfection in a husband, no one else 
could. You still held empire in my heart. I would have remained 
Minerva Patterson until I died. But in my youthful romance I had 
set up a wrong standard. I discover none of us are perfect in any 
line, not even as lovers, and after a careful examination of my own 
heart and past conduct toward you, I find you are no more deficient 
than I. Until last evening, while I sat alone with you at your bed¬ 
side, I never knew you had the deep and abiding love for me you 
evidently always have had. In your irrational condition you talked 
much. My name was constantly on your lips and you were calling 
to me to talk with you. I finally did so, and you went to sleep after 
I had promised you something.” “Then that was not all a dream,” 
he quickly interposed, “and you promised to forgive me and to be¬ 
come my wife?” “Yes, but you must not interrupt me.” She said 
this with her old-time smile. “You told me all last evening and 
accused them, I do not know whom, of making you believe I was 
dead. Your ardent love for me as I saw it last evening changed my 
determination and I decided if you again urged your suit, to ask 
your pardon and renew my old promise, both of which I now do.” 
It is singular how quickly were brushed aside their past differences. 
Not ten minutes after their mutual explanations and reconciliation, 
they were conversing in their old habit of absolute confidence and 
affection. On taking a more critical observation of Minerva’s fea¬ 
tures, Jack noticed she had changed somewhat. Lines of care had 
gathered around her mouth and on her forehead. While she had 
grown more womanly, yet she appeared frail and her general 
appearance indicated some past suffering. She informed him this 
was why she was spending the winter in Florida, but that it was a 
mere slight temporary indisposition, and that the sub-tropical cli¬ 
mate had already done her much good. Looking at his watch he 
found they had been sitting together for over two hours. Just then 
they were interrupted by the voice of a lady at their backs exclaim¬ 
ing, “Here you are, my truant! Do you know, we have been hunt¬ 
ing you for hours at Mrs. Moore’s, through the park, and at the 
beach. We were really beginning to feel concerned about you.” 
While this conversation was going on they had arisen and were 
facing Jack’s new acquaintances. “I have never known of any one 


Bonnie Belmont. 


285 

before accusing me of not being sufficiently matured at my ad¬ 
vanced age to take care of myself,” said Minerva with a smile. 
“But Judge Salisbury, permit me to present my cousins, Mr. and 
Mrs. Brown, of St. Augustine. Judge Salisbury is an old school¬ 
mate and neighbor of mine.” “Anything else?” said Mr. Brown, as 
he looked at Minerva with a rougish twinkle in his eye, and at the 
same time grasped Jack’s hand in a most cordial manner. Minerva 
had told her cousin all, on her return to the hotel the previous night. 
“Do you know, Mr. Salisbury,” said Mrs. Brown, “everybody is 
anxious about the gentleman from Dummitt Grove today. They 
say we would all have been drowned had you not observed us and 
given the alarm and aided us in the manner you did. We all cer¬ 
tainly feel we owe our lives to you, and what a pity to know you 
were the only one hurt. Are you feeling quite recovered?” It was 
a mere incident,” Jack said, “and I would have been of little avail to 
you without the aid of others. As for my injury, about all I can 
show of it now is this ungainly exhibit on the back of my head. But 
I think you may thank Minerva for your rescue after all. As I sat 
reading in the avenue in the dusk of the evening I overheard you 
talking of your contemplated ocean voyage the next day. When 
I heard Minerva’s voice it startled me and on the next morning I 
went to the beach hoping to see you, but you were already sailing. 
I waited there hoping to see you on your return, when the storm 
came.” After a little further conversation, they all walked to the 
beach. Traces of the storm of the day before were quite visible 
and numerous fresh and beautiful sea shells had been thrown on 
the shore and were being gathered by the visitors. The staunch 
little “cat boat” had been turned right side up again and, while 
damaged considerably, was being repaired. Minerva and her 
cousins had been at Palm Beach a week on Jack’s arrival. During 
their two weeks’ remaining stay there they took almost daily 
trips in Jack’s boat to different points on Lake Worth. He found 
the Browns delightful young married people of about thirty-five, 
and the remainder of their visit was pleasantly spent. These 
trips and walks with Minerva greatly revived them both. “Do you 
know,” said Minerva one afternoon as she was walking beside the 
lake in view of his boat, “that I became aware of you being at 
Palm Beach within an hour after your arrival?” “How was that,” 
Jack exclaimed, “I was of the impression you did not see me until 


286 


A Startling Surprise. 


we met on the ocean beach/’ “I did not,” she replied, “but still I 
felt you were here and was watching for you. It came about this 
way:. I saw your boat come in and saw you go to Mrs. Moore’s 
when I was on the opposite shore across the lake. When we came 
back, and landed near your boat, I saw the name Dummit Grove 
on it. I had heard so often of this grove my curiosity was aroused 
to know who was the owner and I asked your man on the boat who 
the owner was and he informed me. I had heard indirectly you had 
come to Florida and was stopping at the Grove, and 
while I felt the name might be a mere coincidence, yet 
I had a presentiment it was you, and I watched the boat. 
This was also another reason why I was averse to taking the ocean 
trip the next day. I wanted to see the gentleman from Dummitt 
Grove.”—It was arranged that Minerva and Jack should visit to¬ 
gether at the home of her cousins at St. Augustine. Jack sent his 
man with the boat a day or so ahead with instructions to wait for 
them at Titusville, as he expected to spend two weeks with Minerva 
and her cousins at their delightful home in St. Augustine. On the 
morning appointed they took naphtha launch for Juno and went 
thence by the “Celestial Railway” to Jupiter, where they took 
steamer for up the river. On their way they tarried for a day or 
so in the interesting pineapple section at Jensen, putting up at the 
very hospitable “Alfresco.” The voyage up the river was enrap¬ 
turing to them all under the circumstances. Beautiful, matchless 
Indian River, where can your equal be found on earth! At Titus¬ 
ville they found their boat waiting for them and took a three days’ 
trip to Dummitt Grove. Jack spent a pleasant two weeks in St. 
Augustine at the luxuriant home of the Browns and found them 
splendid people. Saint Augustine is a remarkable city. Here an¬ 
tiquity and modern splendor are side by side. The slave market 
still stands as a grim monument to a barbarism now passed away. 
The Royal Archway in the stone wall is rapidly crumbling to decay. 
Old Fort Marion serves now only as a reminiscence of past strength 
and impregnable defence, as its coquina rock walls could be pulver¬ 
ized in one-half hour by modern artillery. The Spanish character 
is plainly depicted in the old town, while in the new, American en¬ 
terprise, skill and architectural beauty never shone in sharper and 
better contrast. The Ponce De Leon Hotel, built by Mr. Flenry 
M. Flagler, is one of the prettiest in the world. Its gardens and 


Bonnie Belmont. 287 

walks are pleasing and fascinating. The Alcazar and Cordova are 
likewise very fine. 

Seated with Jack one day on the wall of old Fort Marion looking 
out on the ocean, Minerva said : “I wonder why this abiding desire in all 
human beings to return to the days of their youth ? How we all long for 
it.. Over there is a hotel named after a man largely because this 
principle, or desire, was more potently developed in him than in 
others. .And yet, how we all cherish his name with a strange 
kindred infatuation. Whence comes this love, this strange longing 
for the romance, the tenderness of our youth? May it not be pos¬ 
sible this is another suggestion of immortality? That fresh from 
the hands of our Creator when young we have more of the love of 
Him in our souls; and as we wander away from Him through greed 
and selfishness in after years that, weary with the results of our 
own folly, we long to return to our Father’s house?” “Well, 
Minerva,” he rejoined, “the thought is a very beautiful and sug¬ 
gestive one, but I have been sitting here studying you as you have 
been moralizing, in fact ever since I met you at Palm Beach, and 
it strikes me I shall have to say to you what you said to me after 
our memorable interview with the ‘Gipsy Queen, namely; that you 
are taking life too seriously.” “I think that is true,” she replied, 
laughingly, “and it had been gradually growing upon me since we 
parted in “Bonnie Belmont.” I am impressed I have been having a 
better feeling in the last few weeks, but I fear it has impaired my 
health to some extent.” Jack watched her closely as she said this 
and he felt her words were but the confirmation of a fear that had 
already half suggested itself, that Minerva’s health was breaking 
down. She did not appear as vivacious as formerly and the bloom 
of her cheeks was not as apparent. However, he reflected, they 
were both somewhat older and this would necessarily bring some 
changes. 

But it seems all earthly occasions must have an ending, 
and the two weeks spent with Minerva at St. Augustine appeared 
to Jack to be the shortest of his life. They parted at the depot 
in Jacksonville, she and her friends going to her home in Ohio, 
he taking the train for the West. As she took her seat in the car 
Tack placed in the folds of her hair a spray of orange blossoms, 
and as he did so he noticed a blush of the old-time beauty on her 
cheeks resembling those of her early school days. They parted 
with bright hopes and fond anticipations of the future. 


288 


A Letter from Home. 


* 

: m 4 j \ h - * ‘ ** * 

t*' 

9 #- *• * > - .♦ " * r * 

V'iL */ . 

♦r *, & \- • * * • 

* .4 *■ * > ■. 

A Letter from Home. 

Y * ,> ♦ f *• * r *■** * ' ; * f 

J ACK never had a pleasure that was not followed by a counter¬ 
veiling sorrow. He never plucked a rose that did not have 
a concealed thorn to sting him to the heart. While travelling 
in the North in the following midsummer, he received a letter from 
his old home in Ohio. It was from Minerva, asking him to come 
to her soon, as she was in declining health. It contained an inti¬ 
mation, at least, that she did not hope to live long and desired to 
spend as many remaining hours as possible with him. This was a 
great shock to him and he hastened to her side. He discovered 
she was rapidly failing. The roseate color in her cheeks 
had disappeared. The bright sparkle in her eyes was fast 
fading away. But she still had the dear old smile, and she clung 
to him more closely as these dread monitors whispered the in¬ 
evitable to both of them. Minerva was a grand woman. Hei 
instincts, if possible, were more noble and elevating than when 
Jack knew and loved her in her younger days. In the short 
remaining month of her earthly sojourn, they lived over and talked 
over their early school days and the days of their courtship many 
and many a time. They lived in the past, and she spoke of the 
glad greeting with which she would meet him on the “other shore,” 
when his own life’s fitful fever was over. Whenever the 
nine years of their separation came in review, they grasped 
each other’s hands more warmly as if to exclude the thought of 
another parting. He tried to be more tender and considerate than 
ever toward her, though suffering deeply himself under the ad¬ 
vancing shadow of this new sorrow. She noticed this and tried 
in every manner to reciprocate. She was all gentleness. Her 
patience was abounding. Occasionally, for the purpose of adding 
to his own cheer, she would assume a period of her old-time 
vivacity. But this cost her dearly and only consumed her remain¬ 
ing vitality more rapidly. She suffered in silence and without a 
murmur. They did not mention it to each other. On their last 
visit to the cemetery she exhibited to him folded between the leaves 


Bonnie Belmont. 


289 

of a volume of Burns’ Poems at the sad lament over his “Highland 
Mary,” the spray of orange blossoms which Jack had placed in her 
hair at Jacksonville, with the request that he keep the book and 
cherish the poem in memory of her. 

Two weeks later, in the mournful September, they laid her to 
rest, as she had requested, in the Weeks Cemetery close beside the 
scenes of their childhood, and their early wooings. 

Jack is an old man now, wandering around lonely and heart¬ 
broken, only waiting “until the shadows are a little longer grown.” 
Recently he visited the cemetery and stood by the grave of Minerva. 
In his sadness he wanted to die and prayed for it. The clay that 
covered Minerva looked to cold for her, and yet he wished to be 
wrapt in it. The stone that marked her sweet resting place looked 
ghost-like and forbidding, and yet he desired to clasp it and rest his 
fevered cheek against its chilly marble. He lay in an agony of grief 
for hours; finally the chill of the night closed the channel of grief, 
leaving him exhausted, but calm and collected in his affections. He 
arose and looking down sorrowfully upon her grave, said: ‘Farewell, 
Minerva! I thank you for the renewed moral strength imparted 
from resting on your bosom, even though four feet of cold clay 
intervene, and many long, sorrowful years span the period since 
last we parted on the banks of the beautiful Ohio. Farewell, my 
darling! There is nothing left me now but to live on, hope on, 
love on. Good night! And, though we meet not here, in that 
better land it will be, ‘Good morning!’ ” 

“There together we sat by the beautiful stream; 

We had nothing to do but to love and to dream, 

In the days that have gone on before. 

These are not the same days, though they bear the same name, 
With the ones I shall welcome no more. 

* * * * * 

“I am lingering yet, but I linger alone, 

On the banks of the beautiful river; 

’ Tis the twin of that day, but the wave where it shone 
Bears the willow tree’s shadow forever.” 

As he turned from that grave he realized that the light that 
once adorned his heart had gone out. He felt like a solitary, life- 





290 


A Letter from Home. 


less tree trunk in a barren waste—a shaking, totttering monument to a 
forest once green, inviting and beautiful, its sweet songsters long 
since departed, the bright and sparkling rivulets of which had now 
ceased to babble and the deep cooling fountains of which were 
dried up. 


“Farewell then—for awhile farewell— 

Pride of my heart 
It cannot be that long we dwell 
Thus torn apart, 

Time’s shadows like the shuttle flee; 

And, dark howe’er life’s night may be, 

Beyond the grave I’ll meet with Thee.” 

—D. M. Moir. 



Bonnie Belmont. 


291 


Death of Mose. 

R ECENTLY, as I was standing one beautiful autumn after¬ 
noon in the City of Martins Ferry, I observed an unpreten¬ 
tious funeral cortege slowly wending its way up the street 
toward me. I asked, “Who is dead?” Some one replied, “Mose 
Taylor.” I took off my hat and stood with bowed head and medi¬ 
tative silence as they passed by to lay him beside “Aunt Tilda,” 
who had been peacefully resting for forty years. Those who ob¬ 
served me did not understand why I stood so reverently while the 
body of this poor victim of a brutal system of half a century 
before was being carried to his last resting place. They had no 
conception of what scenes, pleasant and sorrowful, were passing 
in rapid panoramic view before my memory’s vision. Some looked 
strangely at me and passed on.—“Aunt Tilda” and “Mose” were 
again united, where the shackles of the slave are exchanged for 
glittering jewels in the “Palace of the King.” 

And now, my much abused reader, with a heart full of love 
and abiding gratitude for the patience, not to say charity, with 
which you have followed me through these recitals of facts and 
fancies, I bid you an affectionate farewell! 


THE END. 


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